


say you won't let go

by IvyOnTheHolodeck



Category: Ghost (1990), Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Eliza Has a Nonprofit, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Guitars, Internalized Homophobia, Journalist Alexander, Lawyer John, M/M, Politically Charged, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Schuyler Sisters, Women Being Awesome, psychic!Peggy, which is to say I'm furious about 2017 and so are the characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-22 01:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11956980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyOnTheHolodeck/pseuds/IvyOnTheHolodeck
Summary: "I'm not making pancakes if you break your neck.""This view, though, John! You can see the ebb and flow of humanity, like you're a god peering down at Creation-""I'm sure it's breathtaking," John teases, looping his arms around Alex's waist to keep him from leaning any further out the window. He'll have to ask the realtors about putting in screens. "Especially if you fall five stories and crush your lungs."~It's spring 2017, and John Laurens's life is looking up - he's made partner at the firm, he's fighting for what he believes in, and he just moved in with his amazing boyfriend Alex. But when a mugging goes horribly awry, not even death will keep John from protecting the man he loves.In which there are con artists, bullhorns, singing, the Defense Department budget, wine barrels, and some truly foul swearing. Updated every Friday.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for warnings.

"I'm not making pancakes if you break your neck."

"This view, though, John! You can see the ebb and flow of humanity, like you're a god peering down at Creation-"

"I'm sure it's breathtaking," John teases, looping his arms around Alex's waist to keep him from leaning any further out the window. He'll have to ask the realtors about putting in screens. "Especially if you fall five stories and crush your lungs."

"Like you weren't playing chicken with the roof edge earlier," Alex objects as he curls into John's chest. He tips his head back to meet John's gaze. "Total hypocrisy."

"Maybe I just like you in one piece."

"And kind of what piece is that?"

John kisses his forehead. "Bite-sized."

"Hey!"

John laughs, warmed by the spring sunlight. Even in the ultimate urban metropolis, he can smell something - distant apple blossoms, rain on asphalt, something - that speaks of new beginnings.

"You seem happy," murmurs Alex.

"I like this place," John admits. This is the first apartment that's felt like somewhere he could be grounded. "It reminds me of you. Small," and he lets Alex bristle indignantly before adding, "and exactly what I want."

"You think you're so smooth," Alex says, looping his arms around John's neck. He looks up through his lashes, lowering his voice seductively. God, how could John have fallen for someone so ridiculous? "Good thing you're right."

"Alexander, please," Aaron says from the other side of the open room. His voice is clipped and professional, like it's normal to walk in on his colleague and best friend plastered together, which, to be fair, it is. "You'll distress the realtor."

"We're not doing anything wrong," Alex complains.

"You were about to divest John of his shirt, which is not a sight appropriate for polite company."

He's right, of course. John tries to step back, but Alex doesn't let go, his eyes dark with challenge. John has just enough time to feel his mouth go dry before Alex drags him down into a brain-melting kiss. He staggers a little when Alex releases him, grinning.

"Your Hollywood moments are giving the rest of us unrealistic expectations," Aaron says drily.

"Somehow," John manages, having to stop and gulp before continuing, "I'm not inclined to apologize."

Alex laughs at that, bright and happy, and then he's away, bouncing with excitement. "This is the one, Aaron! John likes it, and I love it, and I'm going to move in with my hot boyfriend, isn't that amazing? This can be the office - no, fuck the nine-to-five vernacular, I'm an artist, this is the _studio_ \- and the bedroom will be through here."

"Why not make this room the bedroom?" Aaron asks.

Maybe this is why John was promoted over Aaron. "Because the window doesn't have curtains."

"Burr's an exhibitionist!" Alex hollers from the newly-christened bedroom.

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "The Freudian term for that comment is projection."

"You know another Freudian defense mechanism?" asks Alex, reappearing. "Denial."

John grins. Watching these two bounce off each other is his primary form of entertainment - like football, but usually with fewer concussions. This time, though, he tunes out the bickering to survey the unfurnished space. A long hallway forms the backbone of the apartment, opening on one end into the studio and on the other into the living room and front door. A narrow closet and kitchen split off the hallway on one side, a restroom on the other. The place is clean, well-lit, and close to John's work. It's damn near perfect.

"We should live here," Alex announces.

Aaron rolls his eyes and leaves, probably going to go schmooze with the realtors some more, the same grating dance Henry spent every outing of John's young life performing.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"We should live here."

The hope in Alex's eyes is as blinding as John's iPhone screen at two AM. Back before they were dating, Alex used to text him forty times in a row in the wee hours of the morning, demanding to know why John was sleeping when there are so many things wrong with the world - preteen girls being married to their rapists in Florida, two ICE raids in California yesterday, only half of America habitable by the end of the century thanks to global warming. These days, John just rolls over on their sagging mattress and pulls Alex to him, stroking his hair and letting him talk himself out, grateful Alex bugged him into wearing a mouthguard to keep his teeth from grinding in sympathy.

John doesn't know how he'd have made it past November without Alex, or Alex without him. The election fallout had been brutal. Still, it's February now, and despair can't survive a New York spring.

"Want to move in with me?" John offers. "There's this apartment I'm thinking of buying-"

Alex whoops and leaps into his arms. "I love you! You're amazing!"

John stumbles back a step, laughing. "Ditto." Fuck the haters - this home, this moment, this beginning is his.

~

Speaking of beginnings. His firm has an opening in its roster of lawsuits.

"Bank suing other bank for stealing its customers."

"They can do that? And no."

"Woman suing newspaper for libel."

"Situation?"

"The paper reported her hiring process discriminated against people of color."

"Were they right?"

"Almost certainly."

John groans, on the verge of throwing the completed file before him out the window. That, at least, might generate an interesting case. "Then no!"

Aaron thumbs through his yellow legal pad. "Small religious sect wants to ban ponytails on men on the grounds that deviance is unconstitutional."

John's jaw drops open. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Perhaps," Aaron allows, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

John's father made sure he had good aim, and the six food fights John definitely didn't instigate in law school taught him to hit a target with oblong projectiles. Aaron barely ducks the first highlighter. He huddles behind his notepad as a volley of Number Two pencils and ballpoint pens follows. Stacks of sticky notes aren't quite as aerodynamic as meatballs, but –

"What's going on in here?" Washington demands, appearing at the door to John's office.

"Nothing," John and Aaron chorus. John tucks the pen he'd been about to fling behind his ear.

Washington harrumphs but keeps walking.

"In all seriousness, though," says Aaron, once they're alone again, "how's the Jefferson case coming?"

John tsks. "Surely you don't expect me to go spilling secrets about the biggest scandal in town."

"Is there a case, though?" Aaron pushes. "Does Hemings have evidence?"

What evidence doesn't she have, would be a better question. Sally Hemings has a single-minded focus on documentation that John admires, not least because it makes his job easy. He's going to have fun toppling her former boss. "Let's just say that Jefferson won't be reelected for senator anytime soon."

~

One March evening, Alex votes for a gay strip club for dinner, and Aaron for the new Italian restaurant everyone's talking about, _Merda Costosa._ Alexander eventually agrees to settle for the pizza parlor with the neon "Not For Sissies" sign, as long as everyone wears winged eyeliner. Based on his smirk, John wonders if this were his goal all along.

"How's your city council bid going?" John asks during a lull in the conversation.

"Pretty well," says Aaron, reaching for another slice of no-sauce no-topping pizza.

Alex snickers around a mouthful of pineapple and clam. He's been much more cheerful the past couple months, ever since he flung down his letter of resignation on Adams's desk. The Bank of America had never been the right environment for Alexander; John's grateful that he can provide for them both until Alex's freelance articles develop into gainful employment. "You say that for everything from the ninety-eight percent on your Elocution final to the time your roommate set the toaster on fire."

"Alexander, you were that roommate."

"Toasters should come with warning labels," Alex muses. "Like, 'Do not toast Oreos unless you want to die in a massive fireball.' What's your platform, Aaron? I forgot to ask."

"Ascertaining compromises between embittered parties who are both partially in the right. The police and Black Lives Matter activists, for instance."

He's kidding, right? Aaron's got to remember the clusterfuck of John's arrest during the BLM protest last fall.

"Both sides must acknowledge internal faults before reaching reasonable compromise. I am campaigning as a true moderate."

Alex opens his mouth to respond, probably to argue, but John beats him to it. "So you stand for nothing."

Aaron never frowns at him, just goes from radiating pedantry to condescension. It puts John's hackles up every time. "I'm not going to throw myself bodily behind potentially doomed causes, not this early in my career. I'm being careful."

"Being too scared to stand up for civilians who're being murdered? Funny, I'd mistake that for cowardice."

~

"Hell no, I won't apologize," John says later that evening, as Alex slams the front door shut. "That rhetoric was bullshit. I'm fluent, it's Dad's first language."

"And there you go again, with that blatant elitism," Alex says hotly. "Being the son of a senator doesn't make your opinion count more."

"That's not what I said!"

Their folding chair screeches as Alex pulls it out from the card table and throws himself down in it. An evening breeze plays with the gauzy curtains, Herc's gift, which stretch out curious fingers to tickle Alex's nose. Alex jabs the power button on his laptop and growls when the empty battery symbol pops up. "You act as though you've got some special insight into politics that invalidates all forms of activism that don't meet your standards. Aaron's methods - which are flawed, but that's beside the point - don't match your expectation of rioting in the streets, so they must be shit. Must be nice growing up with a PR manager."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that some of us, John, didn't grow up with overflowing bank accounts and powerful daddies to fall back on."

John bites back a comment about Alex not seeming to mind when John's share of the Laurens inheritance went into buying the apartment. Alex is right - that's a privilege he hadn't been considering.

"His good name means everything to him," Alex continues, glaring at his screen as though it had suggested he work for Fox News. "He's on the right sides, but he'll be fucking careful about it. And while that may annoy the hell out of me, I'm going to convince him to take stronger stances with actual discussions rather than automatic scorn."

Maybe John has been underestimating his own blinders regarding reputations, but he can't help feeling that Aaron's sold out. And bent on creating false equivalencies, for that matter: the police versus BLM comment rankles.

Still, Aaron is Alex's best friend. Isolating your lover from friends and family is a sign of emotional abuse, and John is _not_ his father.

Plus, for whatever reason, Aaron makes Alex happy.

"Fine. Whatever you say." He runs a hand over Alex's shoulder and presses a kiss to his hairline.

Alex grumbles an affirmative, leaning into him a little.

Leaving Alex to his frenetic typing, John goes to find the Jefferson autobiography he's been trawling for indirect evidence of the man's wrongdoing. Half an hour in, though, he throws down the fucker's smug words and collapses spread-eagled on the mattress, barely avoiding clocking his head on the wall. He closes his eyes. The silence, lacking the electric crackling of an ongoing argument, is relaxing.

Funny, that.

John frowns. Normally, Alex pursues all arguments until either John storms out of the apartment (twenty percent of the time) or they start making out (eighty percent of the time.) Attempts at reconciliation are usually shot down as though Alex were offended when his verbal sparring partners cave easily. John and Alex once spent three days screaming at each other over which color cows like best. Alexander's relative composure suggests he's even more tired than he's letting on.

Knowing Alex, though, if a meteor demolished the apartment he'd just crawl through the rubble and keep working while also penning an official complaint to NASA in triplicate. There's no way John's going to stand back as Alex writes himself into yet another sleepless wreck.

A smile curls his lips. This should be no hardship.

John had been delighted when he first discovered the only way to get Alexander Hamilton to sleep was first to engage him in other bed-related activities. That itself can be a challenge, mind you, since Alex is oblivious to attempts at seduction. Naked-covered-in-rose-petals had worked, but only after John had added a sign reading "AVAILABLE FOR SEX," because at first Alex had just blinked and asked why he'd been fighting a Greek florist. Anyway, there aren't any rose petals in the apartment at the moment, and Wheat Thins wouldn't have the same effect. John's going to have to get creative.

He unlatches his case as quietly as he can. Thank goodness he no longer has a fabric case, since the zipper would make about as much noise as a bag of Doritos in a firm meeting. His guitar, a high school graduation present, glows up at him. It's the only thing his father gave him that he's kept, other than a college education, a virtual mound of cash, and suppressed internalized homophobia.

John's fingers form the Gmaj chord without conscious thought. C and Em are easy, though wrapping his thumb around the guitar neck to press the second fret of low E for the D chord nearly left him bald from pulling out his hair. Still, that was six months ago. John had made sure he'd mastered this song before he dared play it for Alex. Thumb the base note, pluck the second and third strings together, then base and open second string, then base and third string.

He perches on the edge of the bed, careful not to slide off the puffy comforter he ordered last week off Amazon Prime along with Alex's pair of coffee machines ("What if one of them breaks, John? Then where will we be?") and a printer. John can hear the typing in the studio falter as he plays the intro, and, grinning despite himself, sings the first verse:

_I met you in the dark, you lit me up_

_You made me feel as though I was enough_

_We danced the night away, we drank too much_

_I held your hair back when you were throwing up_

"We spent the entire first night we met discussing politics, John."

_Then you smiled over your shoulder_

_For a minute, I was stone-cold sober_

_I pulled you closer to my chest_

_And you asked me to stay over. I said, I already told ya_

_I think that you should get some rest_

"Singing about me requiring slumber - which is a lie, by the way - is an obvious ploy, John," Alex points out from where he's silhouetted against the doorframe. His eyes are alive with his smirk, a sign that all is forgiven. John's pretty sure he's not supposed to still be getting shivers every time Alex pins him with that unnervingly knowing look, but hey, he's not complaining.

John quirks an eyebrow. "Are you unmoved?"

Every step Alex takes toward him accelerates John's heart rate, and then Alex is grabbing his shirt collar and crashing their mouths together. John runs his tongue over the part of Alex's lips, coaxing his mouth open. Alex sinks his teeth into John's lower lip and crowds him against the bed. The guitar gets in the way, and John's stomach swoops as Alex fucking _growls_. John pushes him away just long enough to pull the strap back over his head and prop his instrument against the wall. He pauses, fighting the magnetic darkness of his boyfriend's eyes. Alex really needs a good night's sleep. "I'll proofread your article tomorrow if you promise not to get up at three to keep working."

Alex makes a face. "Three fifteen?"

"No earlier than five."

Alexander pushes him down onto the comforter and climbs on top of him. "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Laurens," he purrs like the lion Lafayette named him for, waggling his eyebrows.

John has to struggle to keep his lips from twitching. "Do we have a deal?"

"I generously accept your offer in order to create goodwill between our parties, with the hope of encouraging future transactions." Alex undoes the first two buttons of John's shirt and presses a kiss to John's collarbone, chuckling as a nip of his teeth makes John's breath catch. " _Many_ future transactions. Maybe even a formal treaty." Then his mouth is on John's again, chasing away thought of treaties and complete sentences.

~

"Hey," John calls, jogging to catch up with Aaron in the hallway a few days later. "About the other night. No hard feelings, right? I mean, man, I may not agree with your methods, but I understand that your heart's in the right place."

There. You're welcome, Alex.

Aaron nods, gracious, and tucks his briefcase under his arm so he can shake John's hand as they enter the elevator. Okay, John needs to go back to the gym - he can see Aaron's biceps _swelling_ under his shirtsleeves, what the fuck. "Apology accepted."

John hadn't actually apologized, but he decides to let it go. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. I've got contacts in government offices, friends who run NGOs, that sort of thing. God knows with this political atmosphere, we need more legislators of color and from the queer community."

He watches Aaron out of the corner of his eye, but the only reaction he gets is a raised brow. "Alexander told you?"

"He mentioned you helped him organize the GSA in college." And you were salivating over him like a leaky Bernard Shepard at dinner, a nasty, jealous voice in John's head adds. He pictures that voice as a mosquito and smushes it. Aaron's a good man, an honorable man, and the smartest lawyer they have. If he'd been willing to put himself out there, he'd probably be where John is right now. "Aaron, if you want one piece of advice? Take risks. Don't be afraid to bend the rules a little to get your way."

Aaron's voice is so neutral that John can't tell if he's being sarcastic when he says, "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

~

Your wine barrels came in

Do you have any idea how hard it was to convince Chester they were for the garden

 

rip

 

I appreciate your sympathy given that I'm busting my ass collecting the materials for your potato beds

 

and such a nice ass too

 

Damn right

How are things going? Should I start dinner?

 

paperwooooooooooork

 

:P

You'll be staying late, then

 

unfortunately

would you still love me if I got fired for punching Lee in the face

 

John I will always love you

And if you do make Aaron film it I want to see

Hard day?

 

eh

 

You sound like you could use a laugh

What do a nonfunctional garden hose, a stiff back, and our sex life have in common?

 

alex im at work

 

A whole lot of kinks

 

ALEX

 

Where does our sex life go to make copies

 

oh my god

 

Kink-o's

 

im turning off my phone

 

<3 I'm making Herc's casserole. It'll be ready whenever you get home

~

"Hey, sleepyhead," John says, gently shaking Alex's shoulder. "Breakfast time."

Alex grumbles and raises his head, blinking blearily. John has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the keyboard squares printed into Alex's cheek from falling asleep on his laptop. The morning light gilds its idol with adoration as Alex stretches, rolling shoulders that must be nearly as stiff as when Herc challenged him to a push-up contest. He blinks at John. "Food."

John raises his eyebrows, grinning. "You think I dress like this to look pretty?" He gestures down at pink ruffles of his apron. "The courtroom isn't ready for my kind of fashion-forward. Biscuits are in the oven." In the meantime, he needs to make use of the massive jug of detangler they found at Costco, worth its weight in gold. The towel wrapped around his head threatens to list sideways.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you," Alex says, his voice deathly serious.

John laughs and ruffles his hair. "Ditto. Now come shower, it's against kitchen policy to give breakfast to electrocuted chickens."

~

Aaron sticks his head into John's office. "Hey."

"Hey, man. Just a sec." John highlights the section of the document he wants to go over with Hemings tomorrow, saves, and closes his laptop. "What's up?"

"My client's been exonerated earlier than we expected, and Lee's taking the weekend off." Of course he is, that guy's flakier than a teenager with dandruff. "So I figured I could help you do some research on Jefferson, but my code isn't working for the file."

John nods. "Yeah, I decided to lock everybody out for security reasons." Come to think of it, Aaron's the perfect person to help him with this. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course." Aaron comes in, closing the door behind him. "What's wrong?"

"Hemings insists Jefferson's lawyers have been threatening her with information they shouldn't have. I think we might be being hacked." Or have a leak, such as one Charles Lee, Esquire, Bribe-able Fucknugget, whom Aaron knows better than anybody.

Aaron frowns. "You know the IT specialist? Mr. Arnold?"

"You mean Ben?"

"He offered me a cigar yesterday that was, shall we say, out of his pay grade."

"Fuck," John says, rubbing the headache that's developing between his temples. " _Fuck._ "

Shrugging, Aaron points out, "Ms. Hemings may be imagining things. Against such an enemy, paranoia would be a reasonable reaction. And Jefferson can afford anything, if the newspapers are to be believed, so his lawyers are likely excellent."

"Yeah, I just – jesus, what a mess." John ignores his father's voice scolding him for taking the name of the lord in vain.

Aaron nods, sympathetic. Skyscrapers reflect the orange of the burning sunset over John's cactus, his diploma on the wall. "Would you like me to take over your evening shift tomorrow? Alex tells me you two have plans. He also mentioned that the American public school system is draining students of their intellectual curiosity, that our Secretary of Education is 'a walking bank account with about as much brains as a taxidermied rabbit,' and that the SAT system unfairly favors wealthy students."

That's Alex, all right. "Laf finally got their band together. They're performing at the Yorktown."

"Perhaps, then, you'd prefer to work as long as you can."

"Oh c'mon, they'll be great."

"You're not obligated to like them, John. Alexander doesn't have that kind of formal hold over you yet."

John's about to protest that Lafayette was his friend first when he realizes. Formal hold. Maybe even a formal treaty, Alex had said.

"No thanks, Aaron, I got it. I, um. There's something I gotta think about, so if you'll excuse me."

He's late getting home that night.

~

"It's America's ghost writers, the credit's only borrowed," Alex slams out again, slicing the May night air with red-chapped fingers. "I am never getting over this, this is the best night of my life, I'm running away to rap with Laf's band starting tomorrow, sorry John-"

"Like you could leave me behind!" John laughs, giddy from the energy in the club. Bass pulses through the soles of their shoes as they brave the night air home. After being cooped up in the office all day, John jumped at the opportunity for some genuine exercise. Between his building's gym, the Metro, and nine hours at the firm every day, he's starting to feel like he's living in Asimov's caves of steel. "Screw respectability, hip-hop's our destiny!"

"Or Broadway, that's another options, and you're certainly pretty enough to be a star-"

"Rent," John points out.

"Is that a financial consideration for our plans, or a suggestion for our first audition?"

"Am I dating you for your mind or your body?"

"Both, then?"

"Definitely both."

Alex chuckles, grabbing John's hand and weaving their fingers together. He's literally vibrating with excitement – unless he's shivering from the cold. Digital billboards above shriek brand names as John tugs off his scarf with his free hand and drapes it around Alex's neck. Despite the knots of strangers pushing by, Alex's smile makes John feel like they're completely alone. His eyes sparkle as he goes in for a kiss. "Hey."

"Hey, Mr. New York Times Writer."

Alex groans and ducks his head as he tugs John down their usual shortcut and away from the aurora of capitalist fantasy. He wrinkles his nose against the faint miasma of asphalt and ripening garbage bags. "It's only one op-ed, it's not that big of a deal-"

"It's a huge deal! Millions of people are going to be reading your words, Alex. And your article's genius. Genius," he repeats when Alex makes an unconvinced noise. "Your connection between Reagonomics and climate change denial? I had to close the computer and stare at the wall for a few minutes."

"Sure you did."

"Ask Aaron, it was during a budget planning meeting. Lee thought I was overwhelmed by the cleverness of his ordering toner in bulk." John swings their folded hands as they turn into an alley. Gravel crunches underfoot. "You're going to make genuine change happen, Alex. You're the fiercest, most brilliant person I've ever met."

Alex stops walking next to an open dumpster that must be the origin of the sickly sweet smell wafting through the air. In the yellow light reflecting down the high-walled corridor, John can see Alex take a deep breath and nod once. His voice serious, he says, "I want to marry you, John."

"…What?"

"I've been thinking about it. We've already moved in together, we complement each other, and we communicate well. You challenge me, interest me, inspire me, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

He squeezes John's hand, searching his face. John doesn't know what to do. He can't – he hadn't expected – there's no way he can –

"Do you love me, John?"

"What? Of course!"

"Then say it."

John has lost track of this conversation. "What are you talking about? I say it all the time."

"No you don't," Alex says, his voice neutral. "You say 'ditto.'"

"Same thing."

" _No_ , it's-" Alex stops himself. "I need to hear it, John, to believe it. Just this once. I promise I won't pester you about the marriage thing if you don't want – that – but please. Just those three words."

John hesitates. He opens his mouth -

"Hey!"

They turn together. A man in a baggy coat, sneer barely visible under a baseball cap, advances toward them. Terror kicks John in the chest as his vision tunnels, focusing on the mouth of the handgun.

"Wallets and phones," demands the thug.

"John, get back."

"No, you get back! What are you think-"

"Your wallets and phones!" the man roars.

Alex extracts his with shaking fingers; the man snatches it away. John pulls out his phone and – fuck, no, he can't. He typed the twenty-digit code to the Hemings file in here. "Look, take my wallet, just leave me my phone, all right?"

"I said gimme your goddamn phone!"

"I need it-"

"John, what are you doing-"

"The phone!"

"Just back off a second!"

" _Now_!" The man backhands Alex.

John sees red.

He launches himself at the man, fist drawing back and ramming forward. He swings again and again, aiming for the nose, the teeth, the stomach. A meaty thunk. The mugger staggers and bashes John in the ribs. Alex is yelling. The mugger dodges his next jab, throwing him off balance. The gun goes off. Something hits John hard in the chest, and by the time he's scrambled to his feet, the bastard's run off. "Hey. Hey!"

"John, no, stay with me!"

"I'll be right back," John promises. "I can catch him." All those days on the treadmill are finally paying off.

"No, John, please-"

John sprints back down the alleyway after the retreating figure. The man takes a sharp left, and by the time John's reached the corner, he's gone.

Damn. John heads back toward Alex, who's on his knees now. John picks up his pace – Alex's cries have decreased in volume but increased in desperation. "Alex? Are you hurt?"

"John, don't leave me John, don't you leave me-"

"I'm right here."

"John, _please_."

Alex's hands – oh fuck – are crimson with blood. John crouches next to him and reaches for Alexander's shoulder. "Alex, I'm right he-" John misses Alex's jacket. He frowns and reaches out again – and in the low light, watches his fingers pass through the curve of Alex's shoulder.

John is crouching over Alex. Alex is crouching over something large on the ground.

John's body.

No.

Nonono.

No no, no, this can't be happening.

"Alex? Alex, listen to me. Alexander Hamilton, _say you can hear me_."

"Breathe, John!" Alexander pleads. The words come out garbled, choked on tears that drip onto John's inert form. "Breathe!" He raises his head, grief sloughing off his skin. John straightens and backs away. No. "Somebody help me, I'm losing him!"

"Alex?" But Alex can't hear him.

A woman runs up, summoned by Alex's cries. She scrabbles a phone out of her pocket, dialing 911 as Alex clutches John's body. Beyond them –

John walks slowly away from the scene, gazing into liquid sunbeam bathing the cement, as though the curtain of night has been drawn back. Warmth radiates over his skin. He can smell vanilla, like his mother's baking. But –

He pauses at the edge of the radiance. Alex needs him.

The light fades as John turns his back and returns to his lover.

In the ambulance, he rides next to Alex, who holds his corpse's hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hates the morgue. It's too sterile, for one thing. Everything's white plastic and polished metal, and the floor's an ugly green, like the dishwater after Herc made kale smoothies. Kale smoothies suck. They make your teeth squeak.

John hates the morgue. It's too sterile, for one thing. Everything's white plastic and polished metal, and the floor's an ugly green, like the dishwater after Herc made kale smoothies. Kale smoothies suck. They make your teeth squeak.

John sits on an empty gurney and watches the hospital staff roll his bagged corpse into a refrigerator shelf. He's tried lying down in his body, grabbing for his heart, even giving himself a true love's kiss because hey, self-love is important, and John's truly desperate.

His body hasn't responded. It's just matter, now. Just a bag of rapidly cooling lymph and marrow. His face looked subtly wrong before they zipped it up. Took John awhile to realize he was used to seeing his features swapped in the mirror.

He's only been dead for a few hours. Have they notified his family yet? Martha's going to be upset he won't be at her graduation. She'll make a fuss, he's sure, and his brothers will know it's not really the graduation she's crying about. Like when John and his dad had that big fight over the color of John's bow tie for prom - whose dad notices the color of his bow tie, seriously - and they both knew they were actually fighting over John's date, Mohamed. When you're a Laurens, you know how to read between the lines.

Alex has gone off somewhere, maybe to give a police report, John isn't sure. John considered following, but he's loath to leave his corpse alone. What if something happens to it? Would he be affected?

A tall man walks in, scanning the empty room. His gaze falls on John's gurney. "Newbie, huh?"

He looks like he's addressing this to John, but that's impossible, John's invisible. John checks behind him - no one else in the room. The man chuckles. "I'm talking to you, kid. Newly dead?"

Holy shit. John sits up straighter. "Yeah, I - you can see me?"

"See you, hear you, pat you on the back." He gestures to the rows of drawers in the wall. "Which one's yours?"

"Third from the left. Middle row."

John expects the guy to pull open the drawer, so he lets out a strangled yelp when the man sticks his head through the wall, vanishing up to the shoulders. John clutches the metal edges of his table. This is impossible. This shouldn't be possible.

The guy keeps talking, like this is all perfectly normal. "See, doors stop being a hassle once you get used to it. Shot in the heart, huh? That'll do it. And at point blank range."

"How can you tell?" John asks, breathing easier once the guy withdraws his head from the plastic. Maybe this is all a weird dream, and he'll wake up curled around Alex in a few hours.

"Been around the block a few times," says the man. He comes over and sits next to John. Close up, he looks faintly familiar. Sticking out his hand, he adds, "Crispus Attucks, dead three years."

John clasps his hand in a firm handshake, and then his rattled brain catches up. His eyes widen. "Crispus Attucks? From the Boston Massacre?"

"That's me."

"Holy - I mean, it's an honor to meet you, sir." A line echoes in his head from one of the marches staged after the Massacre, back when the BLM movement was just getting started. They'd all been there, him and Alex and Laf and Herc, chanting until their voices shriveled and their throats swelled shut. No justice, no peace. A frisson of residual outrage shudders through him, and his teeth clench. The cops who murdered Attucks got off scot fucking free. "You are not forgotten."

Attucks laughs. "You should've seen the old white lady who came through here a couple months ago. 'You blacks need to get over yourselves and stop playing the victim.' Irony flew straight over her head."

John runs a hand through his hair, anger bubbling. "With your permission, I'd like to tell that story to my partner, Alex Hamilton. He's a journalist, and that anecdote would be an excellent opening for an article on the next New York demonstration-"

"Kid," Attucks says gently, "you can't tell stories to any living people now."

Oh. Right. John's dead. He swallows.

At home, he's only a few pages into the new Montserrat Fontes novel he'd picked up last week, a spare hair band serving as his bookmark. There's a half-finished bag of decaf coffee on the kitchen counter they'll have to throw out, since Alex won't touch it. John hasn't had a chance to look over Alex's latest article yet. Maybe he can call up the grim reaper and explain that this isn't a practical time for him to die. It doesn't fit his schedule. If the reaper could call his firm's secretary, maybe he could slip in the reaper's appointment in another sixty or seventy years -

His throat's closing up. Oh hell no, he's not crying where anyone can see him. He coughs. "Sorry, you were saying?"

But when John looks up, he's alone.

~

Everyone always says they want to attend their own funeral, but that's bullshit.

The June day John watches himself be buried - in New York, thank god, because South Carolina was never his home - is overcast. Hazy clouds overhead shroud any memory of the new life he'd planned. John's father is there, of course. Henry had barged into the morgue, demanding to know why he hadn't been called, who the staff think they are, and who the hell are you, get out of my way.

Alex's face had gone even blanker, if that were possible, when he realized Henry didn't know his name.

The service is plain, thanks to Washington, whom John had the foresight to make executor of his estate. Henry wanted buffets and flowers and pathos for his next campaign. Washington makes sure John's service can't be twisted into a publicity stunt.

It still fucking sucks.

Martha holds Jemmy and Mary against her skirt as they cry. She looks exhausted. Harry's trying to keep his cool, since their father is watching, but John sees him gulping. At least the casket is closed.

Alexander stands alone, even when Aaron puts an arm around him in an attempt at comfort, unknowing that John is by his side.

Aaron, Herc, and Laf all volunteer their own homes to Alex for the interim, but Alex hardly seems to hear them. John follows him back to their apartment, where boxes stacked outside the front door tell him their blender has arrived. Alex walks, mechanical, into the studio. Turns on his computer. Opens a new document. Pauses.

John peers over his shoulder at the blank screen.

Alex slowly types out, _In this time of national division, the importance_ , then backspaces and replaces 'importance' with 'necessity,' _of endurance cannot be understated._ The cursor flashes. Alex breathes. He deletes the sentence and starts again. _When faced with the insurmountable_ , but he erases that too. _The cruelty of destiny can-_ No. _I cannot_ -

Alex closes the laptop. John brushes a hand over his head, not quite touching him. Alex wouldn't be able to feel him anyway.

They stay like that, Alex staring at nothing, John hovering over him, for a long time.

~

Days pass. Alexander doesn't leave the apartment.

John takes to standing in the corner, arms folded, watching. He doesn't get tired or hungry, although a shadow of thirst sometimes surfaces when the faucet turns on. The white V-neck and jeans he wore the night of his murder don't get grimy, thank goodness. He tries not to finger the bullet hole in his shirt, since he doesn't know what he'd do if it unraveled. Going shirtless in the afterlife just seems wrong.

Alex scares him. Since that first afternoon, Alex hasn't written a thing. He answers bills and feeds himself from the enormous stash of ramen noodles John isn't - wasn't - supposed to know about, but that's it. He spends most days staring out the window. The radio plays constantly in the background to drown out the silence.

Laf and Herc come by, of course, but Alex is beyond reach. Laf knows better than to mention their band, since John died shortly after leaving their club, but since music is their life these days, that limits the number of conversation topics. Herc struggles valiantly to hold up dialogue, but nobody else is all that interested in types of lace and vintage dress patterns. Reminiscing about their past escapades is no good either, since John was part of every prank, every protest.

"I was in Jersey the time you set ducks loose in the courthouse," John points out, not that anyone can hear him. He talks to himself a lot these days. "When you were drawing attention to medical malpractice in the prison system? Quacks for quacks? Am I the only one who remembers this?"

The visit is short and awkward, and the next time Herc rings up their apartment, Alex says he isn't home.

It continues.

One evening, John standing sentinel in his corner, Alex watching the sunset darken, the radio switches to "Say You Won't Let Go." Alex twitches, his shoulders drawing together. John sighs. This is, after all, their song.

After John made partner in late September, his father had insisted he return to South Carolina to celebrate with family. John didn't want to go - his father has an amazing talent for making him feel like shit just by walking into a room - so Alex had promised to text him at least once a day. They were still only friends-with-light-homo when John boarded the departing plane, but texting once a day quickly became texting all the time, with breaks for guitar, food, siblings, and occasionally sleep. John fell fast and hard. Before packing for the return flight, he recorded a video of himself playing the song and sent it before he could second guess himself. Alex was waiting for him at JFK with the first of many kisses and a lecture regarding the relative necessity of turning off his phone while in the air. ("I know the plane needs to fly, John, but I need to talk to you about protecting vulnerable _Dermochelys coriacea_. Consider our priorities!")

The music dies abruptly, Alex having pulled the stereo's plug out of the wall. He's shaking, John realizes, eyes screwed tightly shut. Like a man possessed, Alex stalks into the bedroom, throws open the closet, and rips open John's guitar case. With the instrument's neck in a stranglehold, he steps back.

"You could sell that," John offers, trying to break the tension. "You don't need to keep-"

Alex rears back and smashes the guitar against the floor. John yelps, but Alex can't hear him, smashing and smashing, arc after vicious arc. Strings snap free; pegs bounce across the floor and roll under the bed; splinters fly.

"Alex!"

Smashing and smashing and smashing and smashing -

"Goddammit," John whispers, covering his face with his hands. He's useless. Alex is hurting, is hurting himself, and it's John's fault, John's fault for attacking the mugger, John's fault for insisting they walk instead of taking a Lyft like Alex suggested, John's fault for becoming Alex's whole world and not realizing that their adoration was smothering, was unhealthy, that of course John had colleagues but Alex worked from home, no wonder he's so isolated -

Alex drops the mangled mess of wood and metal and falls to his knees beside it, dashing away with the back of his hand the first tears he's shed since the funeral. His moan is more animal than human. John's starting to understand the stories of ghosts going mad.

~

<deleted> i cant do this

<deleted> why wasnt it me

<deleted> please i need you

<sent> Would you mind dropping by after work tomorrow to help me sort through John's stuff? A. Ham

~

"I was glad to get your text," Aaron calls from the hallway. He pulls another of John's jackets out of the closet and rummages through the pocket. "Hanover and the Redcoats. Should I toss it?"

"No!" Alex runs from the bedroom to rescue the crumpled ticket.

"Alex, we hated that concert," John objects. "You called the lead singer a misogynistic neo-Nazi edgelord." Alex carefully places the ticket in the "Valuable" box. John groans.

Aaron continues searching through the pockets. "Safeway receipt for...I'm not saying that out loud."

"Lube?" John guesses, from where he's leaning against the studio doorjamb. He's been leaning against a lot of doorjambs recently.

"Don't judge my love for green chili Cheetos," says Alex, holding out the trash can.

Aaron moves to throw out a collapsed paper rectangle as well, but Alex makes a distressed noise. Aaron raises an eyebrow. "You want to save an empty pack of gum?"

Alex takes the pack and turns it over in his hands, swallowing. His voice is subdued. "I miss him, Aaron."

"We all do."

"You know how you could miss me less? By taking The Princess Bride back out of the donation box. That's true quality, guys."

"What's this?" Aaron asks, picking up a plastic bag.

"The hospital - it's what John was carrying-"

Right, the contents of his murder clothes. It's weird that John doesn't have a ghostly phone in his jeans. He keeps tapping his back pocket absently and tensing when there's nothing there before remembering, duh, he's dead.

Aaron extracts John's phone from the folded clothes and presses the home button. John's lock screen of his and Alex's trip to San Francisco has never felt so poignant - especially since Alex hasn't seen the background before, which is why he's now grabbing the phone and cradling it like a triple espresso. Thankfully, John told Aaron the passcode during the Darragh affair.

"We don't know the passcode," points out Aaron.

Fuck. Or not.

"I'm keeping it anyway," Alex says. The phone joins John's second favorite shirt and a plush turtle in the valuable box.

"When was the last time you went outside?" Aaron probes. Excellent, he's asking the right questions.

Alex just shrugs, not meeting Aaron's eyes.

"You shouldn't lock yourself up, Alexander. It isn't healthy."

"There are too many people, I can't-"

"Alex." Aaron rests his hands on Alex's shoulders, intense. "You weren't the one who died."

"Ouch," John comments.

"Okay," whispers Alex, "I - I'll go get changed, give me a sec." He carries the valuable box into the bedroom and shuts the door, leaving Aaron to text on his own phone. Beige phone case. Why isn't John surprised.

When Alex comes out, Aaron smiles and wraps an arm around him. They head toward the front door, John following - but Aaron shuts the door in his face.

"Hey," John objects. "Hey, wait!" The knob ignores his attempts to grab it. He could try to walk through the door -

The thought makes him gag. Being in multiple places at once is just wrong. What if he suddenly became solid again, with his head on one side of the door and his legs on the other? Splinching might be fixable for wizards, but it sure isn't for Muggles like him.

He retreats back into his corner. They should give him a prize for precision haunting. _Hi, my name is John Laurens and I haunt these two square feet specifically._

How is this his life? Oh right, it isn't.

Some time later, he's singing Beyoncé under his breath when the front door rattles. "Alex?" he calls, not expecting an answer. Silence. Stealthy footsteps down the hall. John frowns. Why would Alex bother tiptoeing around in his own -

A stranger creeps into the light, eyes darting to and fro. No, not a stranger. "You," John chokes, shooting to his feet. "You - you dare-"

The mugger who killed John snaps on a pair of latex gloves and starts rifling through one of the boxes scattered on the floor. His blood carbonated with fury, John screams and throws himself at the mugger - and falls straight through him. Growling, he springs to his feet and swings at the man, fists and feet flying. No effect. The mugger switches to a new box, careful not to leave any trace of his search.

John staggers back. He's useless. "I'll kill you," he vows, knowing the words are empty. He means them anyway. "Get the fuck out of my house, or I swear to god I'll kill you."

Suddenly the front door opens again. "Sorry, Aaron, I can't," John hears Alex apologizing. Nono, no no no no no. "It's too soon."

"Alex, get out of here!" What John wouldn't give to be heard. Ice crackles through his veins as the mugger tenses and pulls out a gun. The mugger ducks into the bedroom as Alex walks in. Terrified, John watches as Alex looks around and sighs, rubbing his eyes. No, don't be tired _now_  of all times. Alex considers the bedroom but shakes his head, stepping into the bathroom instead and locking the door.

At the click, the mugger reappears, races down the hall, and slips out the front. "Oh hell no," John says, stopping short at the wooden slab. He's not losing this motherfucker a second time. Taking a deep breath, he screws his eyes shut and leaps through the door. There's a brief sensation like being compressed by water jets in a hot tub, and then he's on the other side, panting. Time to climb some stairs.

The sidewalk is overwhelming. Hordes of people stream by, laughing and yelling and talking and living so goddamn loudly. A little kid skips straight through John before he can dodge. Disoriented, John trips and falls into a motorized wheelchair, the inner mechanisms of which would be fascinating any other time but now. He stands and flails to avoid a group of teenage girls, only to step through an old man. This isn't going to work. Gritting his teeth, John locates the mugger loitering on the curb. Closing his eyes to block out the sight of people he's passing through, John strides toward him.

When he opens his eyes, he's just overshot the guy, but he has time to slip into the Uber that's just pulled up for the mugger. The driver's a man, so the mugger hardly notices him; John gets the impression that would be different if the driver were a pretty girl. The tablet displaying their route helpfully announces their destination, 301 East 160th Street, as well as the mugger's first name, James. Unable to bear staring at his killer any longer, John watches the city go by. That godawful song from the new Fifty Shades of Grey movie comes on, and John snorts. He'd never realized "not wanting to live forever" was a privilege.

"Answer your phone, man," the mugger says, and John turns back to him. The mugger has a Samsung pressed to his ear, and he looks pissed. He talks without interruption - leaving a message, rather than conducting a conversation. "I'm sick of your smarmy-ass voicemail. I didn't get it. The boyfriend came back early. I'll go back in a few days."

"The boyfriend - you mean Alex?" John's head spins. "You're working with someone else." He can't believe he didn't realize before - why would a random mugger track him down and go through his belongings? Oh. His heart skips a beat. "You're targeting me. I was murdered."

Murdered.

That word shouldn't exist outside of Agatha Christie and Hitchcock. If John were still alive, he'd probably be sick all over the back seat, but he doesn't, because he's dead. Because the man he's sitting next to murdered him. He feels like that one time Laf dropped a speaker on his head - dizzy, out of touch with reality. Who the hell would want to murder him?

The car stops, and John follows the mugger onto a startlingly ordinary street, one side opening onto a overgrown park, the other studded with brick buildings. Ignoring the main entrance of one, the mugger scales a ladder up to a green fire escape and climbs through a third-story window, pushing past a girl sitting on the top step. She smiles up at him. He ignores her.

John moves to follow, but the girl unravels like a bolt of scarlet silk, focusing her coy smile on him. Another ghost, then. She purrs, "Hey, soldier boy."

" _Gay_ soldier boy," John corrects, trying to shoulder past her, eyes averted from the neckline plunging far below the orange scarf shrouding her neck. "Excuse me."

She tsks and bats her eyelashes. "Sorry, sugar, you can't go in."

"I have to." John has to find out why he was murdered - murdered, the word keeps echoing in his head - and why the mugger broke into their apartment, and whether Alex is safe.

The ghost must read some of this on his face, because she flushes with sudden fury. John flinches at the venom in her eyes as she screams, "You can't go in!" and slams the window shut.

John has a split second to be astounded - she moved a thing! a thing in the real world! - before she shoves him, pushing him through the guard rail. "Shit!" He flails, falling. She snatches his shirt, ripping the bullet hole a little more, and holds him over the street far, far below. John's brain shrieks that he can't die again, but his gut isn't with the program, deciding Abject Terror is the proper response to this situation.

The woman is somehow clutching the iron rail with one ghostly hand to compensate for John's weight. "Leave," she hisses.

"Okay I'll leave just don't drop me holy shit-"

She hauls him back up, dragging him close enough that he can see the bruise above her left cheek, smothered in eye shadow and foundation. "Don't come near James Reynolds again," she breathes. "He's mine."

She releases him, and he scrambles back down the rickety metal slats of the fire escape. He's not remotely equipped to handle this fight. If he were alive - but he's not, and he's got Alex to think of.

~

The trek home is long and cold, bitter wind cutting straight through him, swirling plastic bags and clouds of grit into his abdomen, leaving him gagging from pure reflex. Old habits die hard, no pun intended. At least he got the mugger's name - Reynolds - and his address. Now he just needs to communicate them to someone.

The night city comes alive as the sun sinks, music cranking up and laughter growing wild. Signs frizz on overhead, orange and blue and pink. John walks on the edge of the pavement to keep from being walked through. The sensation is kind of like a hangover - makes you nauseous, and no matter how many times it happens, you never get used to it. Martha used to say the same thing about her period cramps, though her descriptions tended to feature more sledgehammers and electric drills. God, John misses her.

Actively distracting himself, he reads the more outrageous signs as he passes them. In electric green, **BUY TWO GET ONE FREE HARD ICED TEA** . Alex would love that, an alcohol/caffeine combo. In bright pink, **DOMINOES WAIT FOR NO WOMAN**. Do dice wait, then? Bit of an odd distinction. And **MASAGES FOR CHEAP** (they misspelled the neon?) and **BOOKS AND BOOZE** (huh, that actually sounds appealing) and **CONTACT THE DEARLY DEPARTED** (wait-)

He pauses in front of the eye-watering yellow sign, which is bracketed by neon silhouettes of figures spotted with what John vaguely recognizes as chakras.   
**CONTACT THE DEARLY DEPARTED** ****  
**Sister Marguerite Schuyler, Medium, Spiritual Adviser** **  
** **Speak to the other side, $30**

Preposterous idea, but what the hell, what's he got to lose. He follows a woman with too many pearls through the front door, which tinkles from the string of copper bells wrapped around the inside handle. Inside, suffused in quiet Gospel music, a small crowd of primarily middle-aged women sit in a plush waiting room. Instead of magazines, trashy romance novels are scattered on the tables. Not promising.

"Samantha Seabury?" comes a call from the door at the other end of the room.

"Here!" A horselike woman struggles to her feet, having sunk deep into one of the armchairs. She sets aside a well-worn copy of _Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake_ and hurries over, wobbling in her heels.

A teenager leads Ms. Seabury, with John trailing along behind, into a room swathed in black sparkling brocades, where a single spotlight shines on a round table with an honest-to-god crystal ball. John suppresses a groan.

"My child." A tie-dyed figure looms out of the darkness, making Ms. Seabury jump. She - John guesses the person's a she, based on the yellow lipstick visible under her hood - lowers herself into a seat at the table, gesturing for Ms. Seabury to sit across from her. The teenager leaves, closing the door. "You have suffered a grievous loss."

Ms. Seabury nods hard, her curls bouncing. "Yes, yes, my fiancé."

"Dead?"

"Yes!" Ms. Seabury dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. "How did you know?"

"Seriously?" John asks, incredulous.

The medium pauses. John looks at her, but after a moment she continues. Her voice is grave and croaky, implying the revelation of ancient secrets. "I know many things. Your fiancé-"

"George," Ms. Seabury supplies.

"George should be with us soon, if he's listening. I can't promise, though, since our friends on the other side have their own lives to tend to. He could be golfing, or fishing, or eating a five-course dinner. George liked to eat, didn't he?"

"Oh, yes."

"Oh my god," John mutters.

The medium places her hands on the crystal ball. "George, George, can you hear us? There's someone here to talk to you." Ms. Seabury leans forward, enraptured. "George? Are you home? Wait. There's someone else here. A - a woman? Does George know any women on the other side? Named - Molly?"

Ms. Seabury shakes her head.

"Amy?" Another shake. "Claire?" Nope. The medium sighs. "Abigail, Agatha, Allison, Arianna, Ashley, Augusta-"

"Augusta, yes, that's his mother!"

"Unbelievable," John says loudly. He can't decide what's worse - that the medium's such an obvious charlatan or that Seabury is eating it up.

The medium twitches, glancing around the room. "Augusta, of course. I don't know - two souls to contact? I'm no shoemaker, and I don't have any elves." Was that a joke? If so, it's lost on Seabury. "Two souls. It's not worth it. The pain. The effort."

"I'll pay more!" Seabury promises, pulling out her wallet. "I have another five!"

John huffs. "Lady, I'd feel a damn sight sorrier for you if you weren't so gullible."

The medium snorts, almost as if she were responding to him, then coughs. "Okay! George, Augusta, come on down, we're ready for you." She pauses, gasps. "Someone's coming! He's right here!"

"Where?" John asks, scanning the room.

"George?" Seabury asks, her voice quivering.

"He's smiling at you," the medium lies blithely. "He looks happy, and so handsome."

Seabury looks surprised. "Handsome?"

"Everyone's handsome in the eyes of the Lord," the medium amends. Seabury nods.

"Smooth cover," John snorts.

"George says - you're as beautiful as the day he met you."

Seabury looks crestfallen. "But we met at an Ugliest Costume contest."

"He says he first came up to you because he thought you were supposed to be in the beauty contest upstairs," the medium invents.

"He never told me that," Seabury whispers. Tears puddle at the corner of her eyes.

"Look at this," John says, disgusted with both of them. "Now she's crying. You should be ashamed of yourself, preying on vulnerable people."

"Suck my ass," the medium snaps.

John freezes.

"Crap," the medium mutters, then attempts a smile at a confused Seabury. "George made a disparaging remark about me, I'm sorry. He's probably overwrought because you're here."

"No, no, he's always like that."

"Wait, can you hear me?" John demands once he gets his voice back.

The medium acts like she can't, but there's a tension in her hands that tells him she's pretending. "Augusta, if you're here-"

"You can hear me! Oh my god! This is incredible! My name is John Laurens, and I need your help-"

"Augusta," the medium repeats, raising her voice, "is there anything you'd like to say to Samantha here?"

"Augusta wasn't deaf," Seabury says nervously.

This is it, this is it! This is how he can get a message to Alex, to warn him about Reynolds and the murder and everything. "Laurens, my name is John Laurens, I need you to say my name to prove you can hear me, John Laurens-"

"Augusta-" The medium is practically shouting now. "Girl, if you want to say something-"

"John Laurens," John chants. "John Laurens, John Laurens, John Laurens-"

"Jesus Christ, Laurens, I hear you! Now would you please shut up for a second?" The medium throws back her hood, her suddenly visible eyes narrowed in annoyance. She can't be more than twenty. "I've never heard of a first visitation who was so goddamn annoying!" She turns back to Seabury, who looks bewildered, and forces a smile. "Where were we?"

~

"You're legit, then," John says after the others have left and the medium - "call me Peggy, Marguerite makes me sound like a disposable Bond girl" - has closed up shop.

"No duh, Casper," says Peggy as she hangs up her tie-dye coat and extracts her mounds of earrings with a wince. Now that she isn't acting mystic anymore, her voice has lost its rasp. She speaks fast and loud, like she's used to having to elbow her way into conversations. "Runs in the family. Girls only, and I'm not talking just people with vaginas. Laurie got her first visitation after her third round of hormone therapy. The spook could hardly get a word in edgewise, Laurie was crying so hard. Said she finally felt like a proper Schuyler girl."

"But your performance with Seabury-"

"Didn't you hear me say _first_ visitation? Never heard one of your kind before. Angelica got her first when she was nine, if you'll believe it. A little British boy, wanting to know where his mum had gone."

"That's terrible."

"And we were at Daddy's parents' house that year, who didn't know about the ghost thing, so they just figured Charles was Ange's imaginary friend." She chuckles. "They thought Ange was the most morbid kid ever. 'Charlie says he doesn't like drowning.' 'Charlie says his father hits him when his mummy isn't around.' 'Charlie says his family ate his pet chicken, but it's okay now since they're both dead together.'"

John gapes at her. "That's-"

"Twisted, I know, I was five at the time. It sticks with you. Must have stuck with Ange, too, since she works for the Yard in London now. Homicide detective. Helps when you can talk to the vics."

"I see," John says, for lack of something better to say.

"Well I certainly can't see you," Peggy says, unpinning the black velvet on the wall to reveal a view of an alley. She opens a window and breathes in the night air. "Voice only." She points a finger in his general direction. "And I don't do possession!"

"What's possession?"

"Forget it." She sits back in her chair, kicking her feet up on the table. Yellow Converse. No wonder she has such a long tablecloth. "Now what's your problem, Casper?"

"John."

"Whatever."

John takes a deep breath and tells her everything. When he finishes, she blinks. "Wow. Wouldn't touch that with a fifty-foot pole."

John's stomach drops. "But you have to help me. Alex is in danger."

"Rule number one of murder cases, Casp? Don't get involved. Angelica beat that into me and 'Liza after - a case went wrong." She cuts herself off, and her gaze hardens. "So no can do, buckaroo."

"I just need you to make a phone call."

"People can trace calls."

"Then get a burner phone or something!"

"How much money do you think I make?" Peggy demands. "Gullible women who want to think their husbands still love them are always crying too hard to see the tip jar. Half my salary comes from selling books."

" _Getting Red-Hot with the Rogue_?"

"Classic."

"Please," John says, not above begging. "I need your help."

"Not happening." She yawns.

"Then I hope you don't like sleep much," John says grimly, a strategy outlining itself in his mind. Worked on him, didn't it?

~

Hours later, his voice is getting hoarse. Peggy has a pillow crushed over her ear, pretending she's asleep, but her knuckles are white. "Five thousand, seven hundred and eighty-two bottles of beer on the wall," John sings. "Five thousand, seven hundred and eighty-two bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around. Five thousand, seven hundred and eighty-one bottles of beer on the wall. Five thousand, seven hundred and-"

"Fine!" Peggy yells, sitting bolt upright on the couch and launching her pillow at him. It misses by a couple feet. "I'll make your stupid call, just stop singing!"

"Now?" John asks.

"It's four AM."

"He'll be awake."

Peggy grumbles but throws off her quilt and pads barefoot to where her phone is plugged into the wall.

"Nice nightgown," John can't help quipping.

Peggy grins down at the "Too Ghoul For This" printed across her chest. "Thanks. Ange's girlfriend is teaching her to sew. Now stop staring at my boobs."

John splutters. "I'm not - I'm gay, didn't you-"

"Kidding, Casp, take a chill pill," she says as the phone rings. It picks up. She puts it on speaker. "Mr. Hamilton."

"Yes?"

John swallows. The slightly tinny twist to Alex's voice brings John back to his South Carolina bedroom, lying on a musty blanket and grinning at the ceiling, Alex ranting in his ear.

Peggy doesn't add her unconvincing old-woman rasp when she speaks, and John's grateful. "My name is Marguerite Schuyler. I'm a professional medium. I have a message for you from John Laurens-"

There's a click as the phone hangs up.

"Dammit," John mutters. He doesn't know what else he expected; the Amazing Randi was one of Alex's childhood heroes, and John had taken him to a screening of "An Honest Liar" for one of their first dates. Skepticism is a tenet of their household.

Peggy rolls her eyes. "Could have told you that would happen."

They have to try again. The mugger's planning to return to the apartment. Lafayette's always had a spiritual streak. Maybe if Peggy calls them, they'd be willing to listen -

The phone rings in Peggy's hand. She and John both look at it, surprised. Alex's number.

Peggy picks up. "Mr. Hamilton-"

"I don't know who you think you're dealing with, but you've just made the biggest mistake of your professional life," Alex hisses. Oh, fuck, John should have seen this coming. "Preying on people in too much pain to see you for the fraud you are. I will expose you, you twisted, grasping monster, so publicly that you'll never be able to take advantage of an overly trusting mourner again. My late boyfriend belonged to one of the most powerful law firms in New York, so-"

"Wait, hold up," Peggy interrupts with a laugh, "Laurens was a lawyer, and you're accusing _me_ of being greedy and exploitive?"

There's a brief silence. "Summons," Alex vows. The call disconnects.

"That went well," Peggy says. "Is he actually going to sue me?"

"Knowing Alex, yeah, he is."

"Goddammit, Laurens!" When he doesn't say anything, Peggy groans, flopping down on the ground. "I can't believe this. I hate going undercover. False IDs suck, I'm always signing the wrong name."

"I - what? Never mind, listen, you'll just have to convince him in person. We can drive over there now." Before Reynolds shows up. If he got in once, he can do it again.

Peggy glowers, folding her arms. "You'd better bet we're driving over there, asshole. There's no way I'm moving again this year. I finally got the energies of the waiting room balanced."

"That's a real thing?"

"Don't be stupid, of course not. But my clients have superstition down to a science, and the complaints are annoying."

~

Naturally Peggy has a megaphone. John doesn't know why he's surprised.

"ALEXANDER HAMILTON," she blares from the sidewalk, ignoring the irritation of passersby. "WE NEED TO TALK."

The stream of invective that pours down on her from the fifth floor has John blinking - he knew Alex had a foul mouth, but not that foul. Scandalized mothers cover the ears of their children. A teenage girl whistles, impressed.

Peggy huffs. "Your boyfriend has lousy manners. Maybe I should just go undercover."

"Peggy, please."

"LISTEN, ASSHOLE," she blares. Alex had better let them inside fast before she gets picked up for disturbing the peace. For once, John suspects the brass would leave him alone. "IT'S TOO EARLY FOR ME TO BE AWAKE. OPEN THE DOOR AND WE CAN TALK."

This gets an even longer rant, in which 'fake' is couched in more fucks than John's given since high school.

"Laurens," Peggy says, scowling skyward, "I need specifics. What will convince him it's really you?"

Smart. Maybe this is something her sister taught her? John can't list anything that could just be pulled off Facebook or Instagram, and Laf never gets off that site, so he considers for a long moment before saying, "Ask him about the jellyfish at Heart's Desire Beach. The photograph I took of him in front of the Statue of Liberty. The black studded condom with his name on it."

"Jesus _Christ_ , Laurens!"

"You asked for personal." He keeps his voice innocent, since it's not like she can see him smirking.

"Screw you, Caspervert."

"Hey!"

"HAMILTON, HE SAYS TO MENTION THE JELLYFISH AT HEART'S DESIRE BEACH AND THE PHOTO HE TOOK OF YOU IN FRONT OF LADY LIBERTY."

A moment later, the apartment building's front door unlocks.

"Thank you," Peggy says, sounding more annoyed than grateful. She stalks through the lobby and jabs the 'up' arrow on the elevator panel. Feeling the doorman's stare burn into the back of her head, she throws him a scowl. "You got a problem?"

John's never liked this doorman; he creeps on their neighbor Leesha and scoffs loudly whenever Laf wears a skirt. "His name is Chester, and he reads Playboy under the counter."

Peggy grins viciously. As the elevator doors open, she adds, "Go back to your Playboys, Chester," and turns in time to see his eyes bug. She and John snicker on the ride up. Let him figure that one out.

Alex awaits them on the fifth floor, arms crossed as if to ward off hope. His squint could be construed as one of suspicion, but exhaustion is a more likely culprit. His hair hangs lank and greasy around his ears. "Well?"

"Tell him he looks about as good as when he got hammered at Washington's bachelor party."

"Casper says you look like you got hammered at Washington's bachelor party. Who's Washington?"

"His boss," Alex says, eyes narrowing. "You can't expect me to believe you're talking to my dead boyfriend."

"Look," says Peggy, slouching against a wall, "I don't care what you believe as long as you don't sue me. I wouldn't have called at all if your man hadn't kept me up all night singing Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall."

Alex's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "That's how I convinced him to go out with me."

While Peggy processes this, John brushes his fingers over Alex's hand. Alex doesn't twitch. Banishing any hoarseness from his voice, John says, "I'm holding his hand."

"He says he's holding your hand."

Alex flinches and tucks his hands under his armpits. He looks, for want of a better word, spooked. He looks lost. Bags puff out under his eyes, he's wearing an oversized hoodie that hasn't seen a washer in weeks, and "God, I love him. I love him so much."

"He says he loves you," Peggy repeats, "so much."

Alex's expression shuts down. "John would never say that."

He moves to shut the door, galvanizing John, who'd frozen. How could Alex possibly think - "Ditto!" John says, connecting the dots. "Tell him ditto!"

Peggy frowns. "Ditto? What do you mean, ditto?"

The hinges squeak as Alex, pale, slowly reopens the door. "You'd better come in."

~

Peggy might be lousy at actually contacting the dead, but she's decent at putting people at ease. Before John knows it, she's perched on his counter, watching Alex make coffee. She demands more milk and sugar than any reasonable human could stand.

"You calling me unreasonable?"

"It took me six hours of singing to convince you to make a phone call."

"And you can't carry a tune."

Alex watches Peggy apparently talk to herself with a furrowed brow. Distracted, he overfills a mug and spills coffee on the linoleum.

"I didn't ask you to come here for musical criticism," says John.

"Oh, like your little murder is more important than my opinion."

Alex fumbles a mug. More coffee on the floor. "Murder?"

"Laurens here," Peggy says, "thinks his death wasn't random."

"It wasn't. I don't know why, but we were targeted by James Reynolds, of 301 East 160th Street."

"Still can't believe you stalked your stalker."

"Peggy, please just write it down."

"Oh, now I'm a secretary." She scribbles down the name and address on a paper towel, shoving them at Alex in exchange for a coffee mug. "This is the dude who targeted your boyfriend."

Alex looks like he's been hit in the face with a plank. "Why would anyone want to kill John? He was - the best of men."

"The best men have causes they fight for," Peggy says, sipping her coffee appreciatively. "And fights create enemies."

Surely not the John White case, that was months ago. Lee hates him, but hiring an assassin doesn't seem like his MO. Jefferson would never risk such a scandal. John's father…

His teeth clench. John's father never wanted a gay son, certainly not one politically active in direct opposition to his views. "I don't know," says John, "but he has a key, Alex. He came in here yesterday when you and Aaron were out. He had a gun."

"He has a key and a gun and was in here yesterday, and that's it, Laurens, I'm outta here." Peggy downs her coffee in one and hops off the counter.

"Where are you going?" Alex asks, bewildered. "And what do you mean, he had a key? How?"

Peggy stabs a finger at him from the threshold. "I'm leaving. Murder cases make for dead mediums. I'm not waiting around to be the next bullseye. Everyone always shoots the messenger." Something ugly flashes across her expression, something like memory. "Trust me. And no lawsuits, hear me? I'm already sticking my neck out for you by coming here. Ciao."

~

"This is preposterous," Aaron says. Whereas Alex paces the studio, dodging boxes and slipping on scraps of paper, Aaron stands stock still, condemnation plain in the tight line between his eyebrows.

"I know it sounds insane, Aaron, but she knew things about me and John, things only we knew. She was talking to him in front of me. I've been doing some reading on mediums, and there's articles dating back almost two centuries about her family and things they've known that they shouldn't have known. Her mother was a spirit reader in Vermont, and there are tons of reports of her being correct about bizarrely precise information."

"A stopped clock-"

"The contents of wills. Where bodies were buried. Things people said in private conversations, just like with me and John."

"Impossible."

"What if it isn't? I'm a journalist, Aaron. If I didn't investigate the truths I found inconvenient, I wouldn't be doing my job."

"Why can't you let this go?" asks Aaron, an edge of desperation in his voice. "It's over, Alexander. John's dead, and pretending he's not-"

"He was with me. He held my hand."

"I did," John confirms, knowing no one's listening but unable to keep silent. "Aaron, listen to him."

"She told you this?"

"Well, yes." Alex won't meet Aaron's eyes. He stands at the window, staring down at the cars passing below.

"She's manipulating you, can't you see? She's not even being subtle about it."

"Aaron," says Alex, "she said John was murdered. James Reynolds. He lives at 301 East 160th Street. She said John told her. I'm going to go to the police."

"Really?" John says, delighted. He hadn't dared to hope for this much.

"And tell them what?" Aaron demands. "That some crackpot woman was spouting stories about ghosts, and you believed her? The only one they'll lock up is you. You sound deranged, Alexander. For once in your life, think before you speak."

Alex's shoulders droop a little. Dammit, Aaron needs to stop being the voice of reason. John can't afford them to be rational right now.

"I know it sounds crazy," Alex says softly, "but I have to, Aaron."

Aaron sighs and straightens his tie. Circling the table, he puts a hand on Alex's arm. "I'm sorry I yelled. This hocus-pocus stuff bothers me." He laughs, self-deprecating. "I don't even like to read my horoscope. I'll look into it, all right? Just don't do anything rash. I don't want you hurt again."

John frowns, disliking something in Aaron's demeanor. Condescension? He'd initially been pleased when Aaron had come in, glad Alex wasn't going to attack this alone.

"I'm going to the police," Alex insists, tugging the curtains shut.

"Tomorrow, though. You're too excited to go out tonight." Aaron sniffs delicately. John can't smell much anymore, but he imagines the days without showering can't have done Alex any favors. "And you're not in peak condition."

Alex frowns, mulish, but concedes. "Tomorrow."

"And you'll sleep tonight," Aaron presses. John feels a rush of affection for the man. Aaron will take care of Alex, no matter what. Maybe John's a little jealous he can't do that himself, but Alexander is more important than anything else.

"If I feel like it."

"Alexander."

"Okay, okay, fine, I'll sleep."

Aaron claps him on the back and lets himself out.

There's something odd about his expression, a grim determination, that compels John to follow him.

Aaron's car is in the garage next door. John watches, amazed, as Aaron plugs Reynolds's address into Google Maps and turns the key in the ignition. The engine grumbles to life. "You're actually checking it out," John says, just to hear the words aloud. Aaron backs out of the parking space and starts winding down to the ground level. "You believe him."

They pull into the street and weave their way through New York traffic, like a stampede running against a flood. Soon they're on Reynolds's block. Aaron pulls over, every motion mechanical, and ascends the fire escape with jerking, pointed steps. The female ghost who attacked John before is nowhere in sight.

Aaron pounds on the third floor window.

"Careful," John warns, "he's got a gun-"

The window opens, and Reynolds sticks his head out. A lit cigarette dangles from his lips. He squints, puzzled, at Aaron. "Aaron. Whatcha doing here?"

John freezes.

"Who have you been talking to?" Aaron asks in a harsh whisper, glancing over his shoulder.

"Talking to?" Reynolds repeats. "I know how to keep my mouth shut, man, I haven't said a word."

There's a roaring in John's ears.

"Some fortune teller woman knows what you did, you fool." Aaron runs a hand over his bald crown. "She knows your name. James, she knows where you live."

Reynolds smirks. "A lot of women know where I live."

"Is this a game to you, James? You killed a man! I hire you to steal his phone, and you kill him."

Not John's father. Not some disgruntled client, or a legal opponent. Just the man he had dinner with twice a week. "You motherfucker!" John yells, finding his words. His voice cracks. "You, you sons of bitches, you fucking cowards-"

"Jefferson's broke," says Aaron. "He needs the money tied up in that account. If we can't get it out by next week, we're both finished." He looks ready to grab Reynolds by the collar and shake him, but he won't. His fear of Reynolds shines in his eyes. "He won't just refuse to endorse me, he'll demolish my career permanently. Give me back the key, I'll get the phone myself."

Reynolds shrugs and unhooks a key from a ring in his pocket. It's the same key Alex gave Aaron when they first moved into the apartment, in case they ever went on vacation and needed someone to look after things.

John swings at Aaron, tries to shove him over the railing and down toward the sidewalk below, but it's useless. He punches again and again, his vision blurring. "I had a life, you motherfucker! You murdered me! I had a life!"

"Look," Aaron says, pale as he pockets the key, "you find this fortune teller bitch and - you get rid of her, understand? No witnesses."

"Aaron, I got you, relax," says Reynolds casually. He draws a handgun from his waistband and cocks it, smirking at Aaron's flinch. "No witnesses."

John can't stay here. Betrayal fills his mouth like the aftertaste of cheap beer. How many conversations had they had at the office, how many lunches had John paid for since his paycheck was higher, while Aaron - no, _Burr_ , John isn't on a first-name basis with a murderer - was planning to sell him out for a political shortcut at the hands of a corrupt senator?

He staggers outside, propping himself up against the wall. He has to get to Alex. Alex is the only part of this whole mess that matters. But -

Alex can survive a day by himself. Burr needs watching, and John's the only one who knows it.

Hating him, the two-faced slick-tongued fucker, John follows Burr home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John follows Burr the next morning, hands clenched at his sides, as Burr unlocks their apartment and hunts down the "Valuable" box. Burr pulls out John's phone with a hideous smile of triumph. John wants to punch it off his smug face.
> 
> Because life is unfair like that, when they get to the firm, John discovers that Burr's been given John's office. Probably his position, too. Kill your superior to take their place, sounds like something out of Game of Thrones. Or was it the Klingon Empire?

Alexander, do you mind if I come over?

 

actually I'm out atm

maybe after work?

 

Sounds good.

~

John follows Burr the next morning, hands clenched at his sides, as Burr unlocks their apartment and hunts down the "Valuable" box. Burr pulls out John's phone with a hideous smile of triumph. John wants to punch it off his smug face.

Because life is unfair like that, when they get to the firm, John discovers that Burr's been given John's office. Probably his position, too. Kill your superior to take their place, sounds like something out of Game of Thrones. Or was it the Klingon Empire?

Burr plugs the code John had saved in his phone into the company database, and the Hemings case appears on his screen. Picking up the receiver of the rotary telephone on his desk - John's not kidding when he says Washington is old-fashioned - he dials a number with shaking fingers. "Mr. Madison? It's Burr. I've got the account open. It's fine, everything worked out."

"Good," says a cool voice on the other end of the line. "Go to the records Hemings has of the ninth of February."

"Got it."

"Do you see a page with a username and access code?"

"Yes."

"You get to play banker today, Mr. Burr. Write down that login information, and then open the Bank of America website. We have thirteen accounts there under the shell company ThunderCorp."

"I see it."

"I want you to consolidate those accounts into a single one under the name Theodosia Prevost. Then on Friday at 3:45, you're going to join John Andre on the third floor of the BOA and transfer the full account to the Swiss National Bank, registry number 588-5627."

"It's asking me to choose an account number for Theodosia Prevost."

A sigh rattles through the line. "You could create your own, Mr. Burr, but since you seem incapable, try 726-94328."

"Yes sir. And tell Senator Jefferson there won't be any more problems."

The phone hangs up without acknowledging him. Burr exhales, looking relieved.

~

When John gets back to the apartment, his first thought is that Alex must be asleep, but the sheets are rumpled and empty. He's not planted in front of a blank Word document for once, and while the kitchen sink is piled high with cereal bowls and coffee mugs, no one's washing up either. The shower isn't running. The closet's devoid of human life.

John's got his head stuck through a cabinet door - you never know, he once found Alex curled up in the trunk of his sedan while making a business call to the CEO of Rent the Runway - when he hears laughter from the hallway. He finds Alex and a woman he doesn't recognize pulling plastic sheets off the sofa in the living room they hadn't finished furnishing when John died. Stacks of receipts and clean laundry cover almost every visible surface.

The woman's got dust on her blue business suit, but when Alex tries to brush it off, she bats his hand away, scolding him for being so forward. Alex pulls a feather duster from somewhere - people still make those? Oh right, Herc bought it for them - and tickles her with it. She shrieks, snatching it away. Alex yelps and dives face-first into the couch.

John stares. She's flirting with his Alex.

She's flirting with his Alex, and she's making Alex laugh for the first time in weeks.

"Alexander," the woman says once she catches her breath, "I hate to be a troublesome guest-"

"Anything for you, Lady Eliza," Alex says, sitting up. He wiggles his eyebrows.

"Just a glass of water."

"I'll get you two."

"One is fine, thank you."

"Three glasses of water, coming right up."

Eliza waits until he leaves to roll her eyes. She sinks onto the couch and pulls out a glowing pendant. Her eyes widen, some of the mirth draining from her face. She glances around. Quiet enough for Alex not to hear, she murmurs, "Mr. Laurens? John? Are you there?"

"Yeah - oh my god, yeah, I'm right here-"

"I'm going to trust that you are," she says, talking over him. "This talisman was my mother's, it's never wrong. My name is Elizabeth Schuyler. Peggy's my sister."

"Five glasses of water," Alex announces, walking in with all five clutched in his arms. Eliza jumps up and rescues two, setting them on the coffee table. ( _A table just for coffee, John!_ Alex had said as John read the IKEA instructions upside down. _Now that's what I call interior design._ )

Quirking an eyebrow, she inquires in her normal voice, "Do you always over-hydrate people you want to impress?"

"That would explain the venti frappucinos he kept buying me," admits John.

"Nine more glasses coming!" Alex hollers, dashing from the room.

Eliza chuckles. "A model host. Mr. Laurens, if you're listening - goodness, this feels like I'm talking to myself, I hope you really are listening - I'm here because my sister can't escape her destiny. First visitations matter. But more than that, I googled your boy after Peggy told me about him, and-" She breaks off to take a sip of water as Alex brings in the next batch of cups, and continues once he's gone, "Honestly, Mr. Laurens, Alexander is amazing. I read his articles. 2017 needs people like him. I couldn't stand the idea of a man who cared so much rotting away alone, so I thought I'd try to pull him out of his shell."

She's right. Of course she's right. Alex was always going to change the world, John knew that from the beginning. John had hoped he could help inspire that change. It's anathema to think he might prevent it.

Besides, Alex is smiling.

"There," Alex says, setting down the last four glasses grandly. "Fifteen glasses of water."

Eliza cocks an eyebrow at him. "I saw more cups in the sink."

"Are you telling me to do my dishes?" Alex feigns outrage.

"I'm giving you an opportunity to impress me," she says sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

To John's shock, Alex turns around, and moments later they can hear sounds of porcelain clinking in the wash basin.

"I gave Alexander the surname my sister uses, so if you hear him talking about a Miss Church, that's me. He's writing an article about the expansion of my nonprofit. We build orphanages," she explains, voice dropping with a glance toward the sloshing in the kitchen. "And we're low on funds. And before you ask why I'm not in the family business, besides the fact I can't hear your people, what I'm doing's important too." There's something determined in her expression that makes John think she's had to explain herself before. "It's not enough to care for the dead, Mr. Laurens. Someone needs to consider those they leave behind."

As Eliza rises and makes her excuses to a sudsy Alex, John realizes the most remarkable part of the entire monologue: Alex agreed to write for her. Alex hasn't written a word, beyond some scribbling on paper he crams under the radio, since John died. That knowledge should make John happy.

It takes him nearly half an hour, by which time both Eliza and Alex have left the flat, to identify the curdling in his stomach as jealousy.

~

John doesn't pout. He's a grown-ass man, too mature for that shit. So he definitely has a explanation that doesn't entail pouting for why he doesn't look up when Alex gets back from his stroll with Eliza. Alex does seem to be slamming things around more than usual, which makes John wonder if he and Eliza had a fight. The spike of hope at that thought makes him feel like an even more awful person.

He's sitting in the hall closet trying to memorize the ingredients in a bottle of sunscreen when he hears Alex say, "Oh, hi Aaron."

Fuck no.

"Alexander." Peering around the corner, John watches Burr offer Alex a massive chrome travel mug. Burr holds a second tucked under his arm. "A venti Blonde Roast from the Starbucks on Ninth Avenue, I know it's your favorite."

"Shove that drink up your ass and drown in rat piss," John growls.

"Thanks. That's thoughtful of you." Alex accepts the mug and takes a sip, relaxing a little. "The Blonde Roast has a higher caffeine concentration, you know, since the roasting process burns off-"

"You've told me this before."

Alexander nods and subsides. John clenches his fists. Isn't that just like Burr, to make people feel guilty for enjoying things they love?

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night," Burr says smoothly.

"You don't need to-"

"But I do. You needed me to hear you, and I couldn't."

"No, you were right," Alex says, sagging. He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand. "I went to the police this afternoon."

John's eyebrows shoot up. "You did?" He can feel a smile breaking across his face. "Awesome!"

Even better, Burr's gone stock still. He looks hunted, like the deer John's father used to try to get him to shoot. John did for a few years, but he never could muster much enthusiasm. And then he learned about the NRA -

"It was humiliating," Alex says, miserable. John's heart plummets. "Of course they didn't take me seriously, and then they pulled out this huge file on the psychic. Must have been an inch thick. Phony checks, counterfeit IDs, shoplifting, the works. She's a two-bit con woman, Aaron, just like you said."

John's aghast. "What? Alex, no-"

"She took advantage of you," says Burr gently. "She's the one who should be ashamed. Not you."

Alex exhales, closing his eyes. "God, I wanted it to be John."

Dammit. "I'm right here, Alex," John says for the millionth time. He wishes he could punch something.

"You look like you should sit down," Burr says, resting a hand on the small of Alex's back. It's a disgustingly intimate gesture. "I see you cleared off one of the couches in the living room."

Alex doesn't object as Burr guides him onto the couch. Once his spine hits the cushions, though, he twitches, looking bewildered at how he got there. "I should turn off my computer. There's a document-"

"Take your time," Burr assures him. John watches as Burr leans back, drinking his coffee and feigning casualness. There's something off about his attitude tonight. He seems twitchy.

"I'll be right back," Alex says, still clutching his own cup to his chest like it's his firstborn.

Burr watches out of the corner of his eye until Alex exits the room. Then, to John's bewilderment, he pops the lid off his coffee and sloshes it down his front, crying out dramatically. "Aah!"

Alex reappears. "You okay?"

"Just clumsy," Burr lies, setting his coffee down on the side table on a photograph of John and Alex at the beach. A single brown droplet slithers down the side and curls around its bottom lip, staining the memory. "I tripped." His fingers creep up to his throat, and he undoes the first button of his shirt.

John's stomach drops harder than the beat in a trap song. "You," he splutters, not that anyone hears, "you motherfucker-"

Oblivious to the real and present danger, Alex has moved to shove a stack of papers out of the way, receipts for towels and silverware and linens and all the trappings of a new life fluttering loose as the mass slides toward the wall. "I didn't expect you," he explains apologetically over his shoulder.

"Get the _fuck_ out of my house, don't you lay a finger on him-"

"Don't worry, it's no big deal," says Burr, all false magnanimity. He tugs off his shirt and drapes it over John's graduation picture next to the couch, leaving himself in a tank top that exposes every muscle in his duplicitous frame. John trembles with rage and helplessness.

"Do you want," Alex starts, gesturing at a carefully folded stack of John's shirts.

"No, thank you."

Alex settles next to him. Burr bumps his shoulder. "I'm surprised to find you at home. Shouldn't you be out partying? Picking up cute girls and guys?"

"And everything in between?" Alex snorts. "Yeah, right."

"Alexander-"

"I know, I know, I'm not the one who died. But I can't move on, Aaron. It's only been a few weeks. And sometimes..."

"Yes?"

"It's like I can still feel him here, with me."

Burr leans closer. Alex doesn't seem to notice, but John can't look away. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion, or the Titanic launching, or Trump being sworn in. Oh, the humanity. "That's his love for you, Alexander. You were everything to him."

"I can't stop thinking about him," Alex says softly. "Our breakfasts before work, the articles we'd text each other. I always had the news app on my phone send me alerts, you know, and I'd forward the ones he'd like. We'd watch Netflix on his laptop on Saturday nights. He kept promising he'd get me hooked on Master of None. Said I would have liked the sociopolitical themes."

"He loved you," says Burr.

"I miss him."

Burr strokes Alex's cheek. "I know."

John cringes and looks away.

"And I know it hurts, Alexander, but you have to move on. You've got your whole life ahead of you. You're too brilliant to lock yourself away." Burr brushes a stray curl behind Alex's ear. "Too beautiful."

John's going to be the producer of the first ever ghostly vomit. His breath - instinctive, even now - grows uneven with impotent fury as Burr cups Alexander's face in his hands, ignoring his unresponsiveness, and leans in. John stalks forward, drawing his arm back for one more futile strike, and swings.

Burr's travel mug goes flying.

They all freeze.

Coffee gurgles out of the mug onto the floor, loud in the silence. Did John -

Alex jumps up. "I'll get a towel."

"I'll help," Burr offers, but Alex is pulling one off a pile of laundry and soaking up the liquid. The moment's broken.

Holding his breath, John makes a grab for the mug. His fingers pass right through it. But it must have been him, Burr and Alex were too far away to hit the thing, and anyway he'd felt the buzz of contact. John moved an object in the real world.

A fizzing excitement fills him. This, this is exactly what he needs. He can be relevant again. He refuses to accept that the mug was a fluke, even though all his attempts to swat bits of paper fail as Alex tells Burr he should go. Burr acquiesces, thank god, and asks if he can come by tomorrow night. John doesn't pay much attention. This must be a skill, something he can learn to do. He knows where he needs to go. As Burr leaves, John bolts out the door.

He doesn't stop running until he spots the green street sign for 160th Street. Please, oh please. He heaves himself up the ladder and pounds up the iron slats of the fire escape two at a time. "Hello! It's the intruder, I'm back, hello-"

Just as he'd hoped, a figure clad in scarlet sticks her torso through Reynolds' window. She shrieks in rage at the sight of him. "Go away!" She lunges toward him and grabs him by the throat.

John wraps a hand around her wrist, undaunted. He was never one to back down from a fight, and anyway he's already dead. Her eyes widen as he bares his teeth in a fierce smile. "I'm not leaving. I need your help."

"Why should I care?" Her tone is scornful, but John senses there's something beneath the surface.

"Because you understand the need to do whatever it takes to protect someone you love," John says, taking a gamble. Her twitch tells him he's right. He lets go of her arm. "My name is John Laurens."

After a beat, she releases his neck and steps back. "Maria Lewis. What do you want from me?"

John takes a deep breath. "Teach me how to move things."

~

"You're doing it wrong," Maria says fifteen minutes later. They're on the sidewalk in front of Reynolds' apartment, where Maria has lined up a discarded Coke can, a bottle cap, and a small pile of cigarette butts.

John grinds his teeth. He's on his knees and elbows, trying to push the bottle cap, but his fingers keep passing through the round of metal. It tingles, the same way pepper used to burn his lips. "I can see that."

"You don't have fingers anymore, idiot," Maria snaps. "You're dead. You're not really here. All you've got left is a soul, or spirit, or whatever you want to call it. You need to push with your feelings. You need to get angry."

"I'm not Bruce Banner." Still, she's the expert. John closes his eyes and pictures Burr leaning toward an motionless Alex, lips parted in that insufferable simper. "I'm angry."

"But you're angry all over the place. You need to focus. Grasp all that anger and crush it down into your gut." John's fingers skate through the cap, and he huffs in frustration. Maria scoffs. "Pathetic. You're not even trying. Sure hope you can fuck better than you can focus, or else your boytoy might be better off without you."

"Fuck off."

"Oh, am I upsetting you? Are your feelings hurt, Mister Laurens? Or are you just afraid to admit that you don't care enough, that you never really loved your boyfriend-"

The cap skitters across the pavement. John stares down at his hands, amazed. He did it.

When he raises his head, Maria grins at him. "Much better."

John swipes at the aluminum can, which doesn't move. Narrowing his eyes, he visualizes squishing all his grief and rage into a ball in his stomach, and _pushes_ as he swings his palm. The can clatters away. A laugh bubbles up inside him - helpless no more. John Laurens is back in the game. He stands and kicks the pile of cigarettes, sending them flying. A glistening puddle of brown water has pooled in a pothole in the street; John stomps a foot in it, splashing droplets everywhere. "I'm doing it!"

"Congratulations, soldier boy." Maria mostly seems amused by his antics, but there's a hint of pride in her smile.

John hugs her.

It's spontaneous, a knee-jerk reaction of gratitude. She flinches. He steps back immediately. "Sorry-"

"It's cool," she says too quickly, not meeting his eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

She's clearly not. She looks shaken. Because of a hug?

Or because of being grabbed for a hug.

A horrible suspicion germinates at the back of John's mind. Maria, waiting every day for Reynolds to come home, smiling with practiced welcome. The way she seized John by the neck earlier. The orange scarf she's wearing that clashes hideously with her red dress and lips. "Maria," he says, deciding to be blunt, "how'd you die?"

Another pregnant pause. "An accident," she says at last, looking past him. "I don't like to talk about it."

"How'd you get your scarf, then?"

"From another ghost. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?"

"I expect not. What's under your scarf?"

"My neck, dumbass."

"Unblemished?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Maria."

"Go fuck yourself," she snaps, curling her fingers around the bright fabric. "We're done here."

John tugs up the hem of his shirt, letting his bullet hole glisten. "My death left a mark." Her prevarications confirm his theory. He doesn't need her to remove the scarf for him to know that heavy bruising lies beneath. "Did yours? Was it Reynolds?"

"That's none of your business."

"He murdered you."

"You understand nothing. He loved me." She clutches her scarf like a lifeline.

"No, Maria," John says as gently as he can, "you loved him."

"God, don't I wish! No, you patronizing paternalistic piece of shit, _he_ loved _me_."

That takes him a moment to process. "What?"

She glares at the cigarettes scattered around their feet. "It doesn't matter. Just go."

John considers this. He remembers every time he didn't ask Alex how he was feeling - well, not every time, since there are endless incidences he can think of off the top of his head. Maybe it's about time he started being there for other people. John lowers himself onto the curb and braces his elbows on his knees. "Maria. If you tell me to go again, I'll go. This is your life - or afterlife, or whatever. But I doubt you've had a chance to talk to someone about this in a long time. If you want, I'm here to listen. You deserve someone to hear you."

He doesn't look at her as he says this, so he's unsure how to interpret the long silence that follows. Finally Maria gives a low laugh. "My mother told me not to trust men like you. You want to hear? Fine. He loved me, hard, and it hurt him that I didn't love him back. I lied and said I did, but we both knew. I should have loved him. He took me away from the lifestyle and treated me like a queen. And he was protective of me - he'd get in the face of any guy who tried to talk to me. But I just kept angering him, needling him, and he'd go off at me." She rubs her scarf. "The last time, I hit back. If I hadn't lost my temper…"

The words ring hollow, like she's trying to convince him but has forgotten how. She meets his gaze, then sighs and looks past him into the violet limbo of evening.

"I used to believe that, at least. Now I know he's an abusive cuntsucker. Twenty-twenty hindsight. But I said I'd stay with him, and I keep my word."

John should have taken that psych class in junior year - words can't describe how unqualified he is to be having this conversation. Lafayette is good with people, but they've got an aura of affirmation that John's never mastered. Herc sews supportive messages into pillows - not an option. Washington frowns at everyone, Alex would probably try to logic Maria into leaving Reynolds, and wow, John's friends are not being helpful. Martha would badger him to say, "That sounds frustrating, do you want to talk about it," but the expression seems trite in the face of Maria's conundrum. Peggy would flee the room at this point. Eliza -

Huh. That's an interesting idea.

"You know," says John tentatively, "Someone once told me that caring for the dead wasn't enough, and you had to care for the living too. Sounds like your relationship with Reynolds is dead. Is there anyone you still love?"

That wins him a fleeting smile. "Yeah, Susan. She's a kid I took under my wing back at the brothel."

"Might be worth visiting her." And to give herself some time away from Reynolds to let that sense of obligation fizzle.

"I'll think about it."

He can't ask for better than that. Besides, he has work to do.

~

The line to get into Peggy's building spills out onto the street. John sees shimmering flapper dresses, zoot suits, some truly diabolical ruffled shirts, patched jeans, and more. One ghost is bouncing his decapitated head from elbow to elbow like a hackey sack. "Hey," he complains as John shoulders past him, "wait your turn."

John squeezes his way through the masses of dead and living in the waiting room. In her psychic chamber, Peggy's got ghosts crowding in on her from all sides. She's got her cheek propped up on one palm, and the fed-up glint in her eye looks dangerous. Eliza sits next to her, serene in a blue hood. "So if we concentrate," Peggy explains to the nervous woman across the table, "we may be able to rouse him."

The ghost peering over the woman's shoulder has his eyes buried in her cleavage. "Oh, I'm roused." A murmur of amusement rolls through the ghostly audience. Peggy rolls her eyes.

"Peggy?"

"Laurens!" Peggy sits up, torn between relief and irritation. Eliza watches with eyes alight. "Is this your doing? Suddenly I've got every spook from here to Chicago clogging my apartment. You lot have no concept of personal space, hear me? If I get one more visitation in the shower-"

"Is that Orlando?" Peggy's client asks.

Peggy hardly spares her a glance. "An old friend."

"We've known each other less than a week."

"Hey," the guy named Orlando says, "end of the line, douchebag."

Alex would probably fight the man for that comment alone. John shouldn't. He's trying to teach himself to be more frugal with his fists, so that he doesn't split his knuckles unnecessarily. It's easier to punch the shit out of New York's real villains if he starts out intact. "Peggy," he says, choosing to ignore Orlando's glare, "I need your help."

"I'm a little busy, Casper."

"Too busy for a bank heist?"

"Pretending you didn't say that."

"Say what?" Eliza asks.

"This is taking too long," Orlando mutters. He marches around the table, and before John can object, sits down in Peggy's chair. Nothing happens. He huffs and gets up, passing through Eliza in the process.

For a bizarre, wavering instance, Eliza fades out and Orlando takes her place, blinking stupidly. "Ortisha?" they ask in an echoing voice, looking at the woman across the table.

"Orlando?"

Peggy shrieks, leaping to her feet. "Not my sister, you bastard!"

Eliza rematerializes and staggers backward, Orlando peeling out of her body and lying stunned on the ground. "What-"

"Eliza? Are you all right?" John reevaluates the value of kicking the other ghost's ass.

"Fool," one of the ghosts mutters as they drag Orlando to his feet. "Possession weakens you something dreadful, son."

"Out," Peggy orders, pointing a finger at the door. She kneels next to Eliza, who's swiping at her arms as though brushing off invisible spiders. "Nobody does that to my sister without permission. Leave, or I'll exorcise the lot of you."

Her living client says, "But the insurance policy-"

"Out!"

The ghosts grumble but disperse, many leaving through the walls and windows. John turns to go with them - while his mission is time-sensitive, the sisters look like they need a moment - but Eliza says, "Is John here? He can stay."

"Fine," Peggy snaps.

"Tell her I say thank you."

"He says thank you."

Eliza smiles shakily. "Alexander told me he was a gentleman. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Laurens."

John can't deny she's nice. Certainly better than Burr, though that's setting the bar on the ground. John remembers how she made Alexander laugh, and he quashes the jealousy in his heart. "Tell her it's a pleasure for me too, and that I appreciate what she did for Alex. I haven't seen him in such a good mood in weeks."

"I am _not_ helping you arrange an undead threesome."

"Peggy!"

She repeats his words to Eliza and cuts off her thank you. "Laurens, can I talk to you in private?"

"What's wrong?" John asks once they're out of Eliza's earshot.

"Everything," she says, jabbing a finger at him. Peggy trying to locate him based on his voice reminds John of when he'd play Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey at childhood birthday parties, or Pin-the-Scandal-on-the-Politician in college. "You. Eliza. All these ghosts."

"Isn't it helping your business, though?"

Peggy snorts. "Yeah, but now that I've got real income, Eliza expects me to spend it on school supplies. I've made a grand in the last three days."

"So, like, half a textbook."

"You see the problem?"

He can hear Eliza speaking to someone in the psychic room. "Look," John says, "if I don't pull off this heist, my killer gets away. Worse, he gets promoted to political office. Do you want that kind of person representing you?"

"He sounds ready for Congress."

John's about to retort, but he hears a familiar voice in the next room snarl, "You're the psychic, shouldn't you tell me what my name is?"

John's eyes widen. "That's Reynolds."

"James Reynolds?" Peggy demands loudly. He must hear her, because a volley of bullets slam into the hallway near her. She screams.

John rushes into the psychic room in time to see Eliza kick the guy hard in the nuts. He buckles. She grabs for his gun, but he bashes her with it in the side of the head, and she drops. Reynolds races out, the front door crashing shut behind him to a cacophony of bells.

Blood trickles down Eliza's temple. "Shit," John curses. "Peggy!"

She's kneeling next to him in an instant, terribly pale. "I'm calling 911."

Eliza presses a hand to her head. "Ow."

"Shh, sweetie, we're going to get you to the emergency room."

"'M fine," Eliza objects, levering herself up. "He just stunned me. Do you have an ice pack?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course-"

Eliza rebuffs all Peggy's attempts to fuss over her, even though the tight cords in her hands tell John she must be in pain. He remembers the black eye he got in a barfight a year ago, when some dude didn't appreciate Alex getting in his face for crowding a scared girl into a corner.

"So why is John here?" she asks, holding Peggy's phone above her head so Peggy can't reach.

"Just let me call urgent care!"

"No. John?"

"You're crazy," Peggy hisses. "You're already bleeding, and you _know_ what happens to mediums in murder cases."

Eliza's eyes are calm as she stares down her younger sister. "Our mother died doing what she thought was right. Do you dishonor her by hiding from those in need?" Peggy looks away. Eliza nods. "So. John?"

"He's stealing from some dude."

"I'm appropriating the cash Jefferson embezzled," John corrects. He speaks cautiously, because, shit, no wonder Peggy's so leery about him. "You know the Hemings case? I was Sally Hemings' lawyer before I died. We always suspected Jefferson was stealing from the Defense Department, but we hadn't found any evidence. I was watching over Burr's shoulder - they've got sixty million dollars in that account."

"How the hell did the government not notice that much money going missing?"

"From the Defense budget?"

"Good point."

John has an idea. "Eliza's nonprofit's low on funds, right? That's why she wanted Alex's article, to get publicity. Peggy, ask her for me: are you required to disclose your donors?"

~

"I can't believe we're doing this," Peggy mutters. "I hate pantsuits."

"Better than that yellow monstrosity," John says as they ascend the marble stairs into the bank. He's glad Eliza had the last word in Peggy's outfit.

"Fuck you, that dress is awesome."

"The hat had fake bananas on it."

"Exactly." Peggy's heels click loudly as she walks in. She swallows. "Moral support."

"You can do this."

"I hate these places. Too snooty." She pastes on a smile for a passing cashier. "Too rich."

The ornate columns staring down from all sides make it hard to argue. "You see where it says 'New Accounts?' That's where you're going."

"Hell no, I'm keeping my money in my sock drawer where it belongs."

How big of a sock drawer does she have? "Trust me."

Peggy wobbles up to the counter and gives the cashier a bright smile. "Hi."

"You're here to fill out a signature card for a new account," John prompts.

"I'm here to fill out a signature card for a new account."

"Do you know your account number?" the man behind the counter asks.

"Yes," John says, "726-94328."

"Yes, 726-94328."

"Theodosia Prevost," John says.

"Who?" Peggy asks. The cashier squints at her, confused.

"Your name is Theodosia Prevost."

"My name is Theodosia Prevost," Peggy agrees.

"Didn't they have you sign a card when you opened the account?" asks the man.

Fuck, John hadn't considered this. Peggy could claim she opened it by phone, but the cashier might ask who she talked to, and -

"Did it online this morning," Peggy lies smoothly. "My phone screen's so cracked I could hardly see the buttons, let alone sign my name. Anyway," she adds, dropping her voice to a whisper, "I don't like putting my signature on the Internet. The NSA could steal it. They're already stealing babies out of cribs, you know."

"Right," the cashier says.

"They're building an army of brainwashed cyborgs to take over the country. My mamma always warned me it was coming, the metal-brained invaders. They install cameras in your showerheads to see if you're good breeding stock."

The cashier nods uncertainly, clicking away at his computer. "Indeed, ma'am."

"Could you stick to the script?" John hisses. Peggy flips him off behind her back.

"Sign here, please." The cashier hands her a tablet and pen with a stylus end.

"The NSA can't get to this, can they?" Peggy checks.

"We consider security a priority."

"My kind of guy." Peggy picks up the stylus, but makes no move to sign. "Mamma took years to teach me to write, you know, with a name as hard to spell as mine. Never could spell. Took me three days to learn to spell USA, and I only stuck with it because I was patriotic. Theodosia, though. Theo-do-sia." She stretches the vowel sounds. "Theeeo-dooo-siiiaaaaa."

"T-h-e-o-d-o-s-i-a," John recites. "Last name P-r-e-v-o-s-t."

"And a good name it is," Peggy announces as she signs carefully.

By now, the cashier's bushy white eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline. "Indeed."

"Tell him to send it to the third floor because you have a transaction to make."

"Can you send that to the third floor? I've a transaction to make."

"Yes indeed, ma'am."

"You're a love. Can I keep the pen?"

John jabs her in the ribs, and she yelps. "Sorry," she says to the cashier, fake smile blinding, "baby kicking."

"You aren't pregnant, are you?" John checks as he hustles her into an elevator.

"Do I look like I'm getting laid? What happens if you press this button?"

"It calls the fire department. Please behave."

They exit onto the fancy executives floor where John picked up Alex from work a few times. Peggy's nose wrinkles, and it's not hard to see why - the other people here are nearly as white and male as the Cabinet. John guides her to the guard regulating access to the desks. "Tell him you're here to see John Adams."

"I'm here to see John Adams."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"You're Theodosia Prevost. He'll want to see you."

"I'm Theodosia Prevost. He'll want to see me."

The guard goes to consult with Adams. John fills Peggy in: "Adams thinks he's the shit, but he's so socially awkward that he gets hammered at every company event. Tell him you met at the Christmas party this winter, and ask him how Abby and Quincy are doing."

"Ms. Prevost," Adams says, once the guard ushers her up to his desk. Alex is right, the motherfucker does look like an anemic toad. John still hasn't forgiven him for the racist comments Adams claimed were the inevitable effect of the Christmas whiskey. Hopefully Adams' tooth is still chipped. Tripping the man wasn't as satisfying as punching him might have been, but John couldn't risk Alex being fired. "How can I help you?"

"Got any eggnog?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on," Peggy laughs, "surely you remember the eggnog incident from the Christmas party."

"Ms. Prevost, I'm lactose intolerant."

John facepalms, but Peggy just purses her lips. "Explains a lot. How are Abby and Quincy doing?"

"Well, thank you," says Adams, looking bewildered and not a little concerned. He's probably wondering what happened during the eggnog incident. "And you?"

"Good, good."

Adams doesn't look convinced. John wracks his brain for memories of specifics from the month between the party and Alex quitting. "Ask him how they did on the Paris securities."

"How'd the Paris securities work out?"

"Beautifully," Adams says, eyes round. Yeah, that was supposed to be an inner circle secret. John hopes he'll lose sleep tonight wondering how much he'd blabbed. "That tip was excellent."

"Good old Sam," John supplies.

"Good old Sam. Got a real head on his shoulders."

" _Her_ shoulders."

"Her shoulders."

Adams nods. "What can I do for you?"

"You're closing an account."

"I'm closing an account."

He swivels his computer screen. "Do you have your account number?"

"726-94328."

"726-94328."

John watches over his shoulder as Adams pulls up her file and goes milky white. Glorious. "I see you're withdrawing sixty million dollars today."

"Oh," Peggy sighs, "is that all? I knew I shouldn't have bought that yacht. Daddy's always telling me to save money."

Adams looks like he's going to throw up. John is loving this. "And how would you want that?"

"Rubies are in fashion, aren't they?"

"Tell him a cashier's check."

"I suppose I'll stick to cashier's check."

Adams asks for identification, and Peggy passes him the fake driver's license she made this morning. For someone who hates going undercover, she's an expert at creating false IDs. Adams checks the signature on the card against the one in the computer system, and of course they match. "Sixty million it is."

Something - a sense of being watched - draws John's attention, and _fuck_ , seriously, right now? He knew Alex would have to pay off the mortgage at some point, but literally any other point in time would be more convenient.

Alexander frowns at Peggy, whom he can see in profile. Thank god Eliza dressed her professionally; she looks a world different than she did in tie-dye. It's not enough, though - Alexander's headed this way.

John rushes to head him off. As Alex passes a desk, John pushes a tall stack of papers off it. They slough to the floor.

Alex turns, startled. He visibly concludes he must have bumped into them and begins picking them up. Encouraged, John tips over another stack once Alex straightens.

John checks the clock as Adams writes Peggy the check. She accepts it with a trembling hand, but Adams doesn't notice. 3:42. They're just on time. "We have to leave," he hisses. "Alex is here. He recognized you."

Peggy keeps her smile fixed in place, but she bobs her chin so he knows she heard. "Thank you, Mr. Adams, it's been a pleasure. Give Abby my love, and tell her the offer stands. She'll know what I mean." She winks salaciously and hurries off before Adams can process her words.

John groans, since no one can hear him. "Tell me you didn't just suggest a threeway with the Adamses."

"Payback for the black studded condom, Caspervert."

They bicker all the way down to the lobby, where Burr passes them. John stiffens. "Bring that check to Eliza," he tells Peggy. "Get it in the system as fast as you can. I'll catch up with you."

Back upstairs, as John follows Burr into a glass-paneled meeting room, he glimpses Alex speaking to Adams. He doesn't have time to focus on that, though, because Andre lets them in.

John has experienced few pleasures as keen as the look on Burr's face when Andre pulls up the Theodosia Prevost account and finds it closed.

~

People always accuse Alexander of being a drama queen. To be fair, Alex did take out an advertisement in the Washington Post to tell his ex how much he was over her. And he moped for three days when Lafayette said his ponytail was limp. And he performs odes to John from atop of the kitchen table.

The point is, Alexander Hamilton is usually so extra that people fail to notice John Laurens has a dramatic streak too.

He starts by turning the thermostat down as low as it'll go.

The bank's closed by now, Andre having left Burr with access to the computer system and a derisive look, in case "you can net yourself a miracle, mate." The floor is abandoned. Evening light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting beige carpet and swivel chairs. Burr is still opening and reopening the Prevost account, since he never did have much imagination. Does he hope "CLOSED" will stop flashing across the screen if he does it enough times?

John flicks a ballpoint pen across the table.

Burr looks up as the pen skids to a stop. He stares for a long moment before apparently deciding it's nothing. He pulls up the account again and navigates to the records section, which shows Adams as having closed the account at 3:40.

John turns off the laptop.

"Dammit," Burr whispers as the screen goes dark. He passes a hand over his sweaty forehead, leaning back in his chair.

John turns the computer back on.

Burr blinks at the shining screen, watching as John closes all his tabs. John does it slowly, click after click, taking longer for each subsequent one. Ominous music might be nice, but pulling up iTunes in Burr's view would probably kill the mood. John settles for opening a Word document and letting the cursor blink. He waits a long moment, letting the tension stretch, before crossing to the light switch and flicking it off. On. Off. On-off.

"Who's there?" Burr asks, his voice harsh to cover his nervousness. Good, yes, they're on the right track. John taps a chair on the other side of the table, letting it turn with a squeak. He grins as Burr's gaze snaps toward the motion. Being a vengeful spirit is more satisfying than he would have guessed.

Burr moves to close the document. No, John didn't give him permission to do that, and John is in control now. He cuffs Burr on the back of the head. Burr inhales sharply, his hand flying to his skull. Oh, this is fun.

John leans forward and types, deliberately, MURDERER.

A full-body flinch. Burr checks over his shoulder - there's no one else in the room. No one in the hall. He's alone.

John gets impatient. He grabs the back of Burr's chair and thrusts it at the table. The wood slams beneath Burr's ribs, making him wheeze. So much for ergonomics.

"Who's doing this?" Burr pleads in a cracked whisper. He raises his arms to fend off an invisible attack.

He did ask. The keyboard clicks as John types JOHN LAURENS. Copy. Paste. JOHN LAURENS. Paste. JOHN LAURENS. Paste. Paste. Paste.  JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS -

"John," Burr breathes, eyes wild. "It was an accident, John, I swear, he wasn't supposed to kill you. A misunderstanding. Please. I didn't kill you."

JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS JOHN LAURENS -

Burr stumbles backward. His breath frosts in the air. His teeth chatter. "Laurens _please-_ "

John sweeps the computer off the table and hurls it at him. Burr yelps and dives out of the way. John stabs with a pencil. Burr throws up his hands. John hurls a chair and shatters the meeting room wall.

It's not worth it.

He realizes as he stands over a cowering Burr with a shard of jagged glass raised. He could carve open Burr's throat right now and watch the arteries spray. But god, Burr isn't worth it. John won't become a murderer for this cowardly piece of slime.

He drops the glass and steps back. Burr has already ruined what matters most to him: his reputation. No way someone as vindictive as Jefferson will ever let this go.

There's a whiteboard hanging on the wall. John picks up a marker and prints "LEAVE ALEX ALONE."

He walks away. It's about time he went home.

~

For fifteen minutes after he gets back, as he watches Alex research orphanage statistics for New York, John thinks it's over.

No such luck. 

"Aaron, you look like shit."

"Alexander," Burr says, one hand white-knuckled on the doorjamb. His breaths are deep and regular, too regular - he's trying to clamp a calm mask over his panic, and it's not working. "I need your help. There was, ah, evidence stolen today from the BOA that I need for a case. Do you still have the security camera access codes?"

"Jesus, come in before you bust a blood vessel. I'll check." Alex grabs his laptop. Nice try, Burr, but there's no way John's going to let Alex turn on that computer. Holding down the power button will be child's play. "Even if they've been changed, we can still hack them. The security people there are shit. You want the safety deposit room?"

"No. Third floor."

Alex makes a face. "What evidence can you steal from there? Does this have to do with the psychic woman?"

Oh, fuck.

Burr stills. "What?"

"I went in to sign property paperwork, and I could have sworn it was her. Adams said the woman was called Theodosia Prevost, but then Adams is an idiot."

"Thank you, Alexander," Burr says. John whacks him in the ribs. Crumpling a little, Burr adds in a wheeze, "May I use your kitchen for a moment?"

"Uh, yeah, knock yourself out."

As soon as Burr's alone, a mania that John hasn't seen before enters his eyes. He cranks the stove's gas to maximum and pulls out a lighter. "Laurens," he breathes, "I need that money, or I swear to god I'll kill him."

No time for speeches. John cranks the gas gauge down to zero.

Burr watches the self-turning dial with a kind of fanatical fascination. He pulls a butcher's knife from the knife block. "I'll do it. I'll find a way. My legacy is at stake. I lose any chance of succeeding in politics if this fails. Unlike you, I will not disappoint my parents. I need it by eleven tonight. In the meantime," he adds, holding up the phone to show he's been texting out of sight, "My friend James and I are going to take care of that interfering bitch."

John could stab him with a knife right now, but they're in Alex's apartment. No way Alex could avoid suspicion. And Burr has already dispatched Reynolds. Peggy and Eliza need him.

John flies.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Schuyler sisters are curled up on Peggy's bed drinking tea when John bursts in.

The Schuyler sisters are curled up on Peggy's bed drinking tea when John bursts in. "Guys!"

Peggy spills gold nail polish on her bedspread. "Oh, goddamnit Laurens, this was new-"

"Laurens?" Eliza asks.

"Peggy, Burr knows, Reynolds knows, they're coming, you have to get out of here."

Peggy's face goes slack. "You said we were untraceable."

"The money, yes, but Alex recognized you at the bank, Peggy, and he's gullible enough to trust Burr, and we need to _move_. Did you cash the check?"

"Hours ago."

"Good. Come on."

John hustles them out as Eliza pulls on socks and peppers Peggy with questions. They're halfway through the waiting room when the lobby floods with illumination from a car's headlights outside. Car doors slam. Someone kicks the door, making it rattle.

"Hide," John says, and Peggy sprints back into the psychic room, Eliza in tow. He winces as gunshots crack. The door swings open; they've shot the lock.

Reynolds shoves his way inside, blinding John with a flashlight. Black velvet paintings shimmer as the beam falls over them, swaying precariously from novels with broken spines on the floor to squat boxes of Kleenex to an abandoned cardigan. Little bobbles of red felt sway from the bottoms of lamps as Reynolds creeps forward, gun braced above his searchlight. "Stay here," he growls at Burr, who hovers behind him. "You'll only get in the way." Burr doesn't complain, moving to guard the shop from the outside.

John crushes down his wildly pounding heart and focuses. Attacking Reynolds would only convince Burr that the Schuylers are within, and Reynolds probably wouldn't be much injured anyway. John needs to convince Reynolds to leave of his own volition, ideally while paying him back for the bullet he buried below John's right atrium. The gunshot wound in John's chest throbs for the first time since he's died, and John thinks of the old men in South Carolina who swore their war wounds could tell them when storms were brewing.

Leaving Reynolds behind, John finds Peggy and Eliza in the bedroom, trying to unstick the window. "We need a distraction," Eliza says when Peggy makes John's presence known.

"Leave it to me," John assures her. Resolve settles in his chest. Reynolds already took his life - no way he's going to let Reynolds take the lives of his friends. Time to put his teenage love of horror flicks to good use. He returns to the dark waiting room.

Reynolds, still casing the place, spins at the tinkle of bells as John closes the front door. Burr's visible through the shop window, too far from the entrance to be the culprit. John taps the bells again. Reynolds' harsh breathing grates in the stillness. With a ferocious grin, John moves to a futon across the room and smacks a book to the floor. Reynolds twitches, going to check, and John closes the door to the psychic chamber with a thud. Reynolds's head jerks up, and he launches himself into the psychic room in an instant, gaze snapping left and right. No one there.

John shuts the door behind them.

Reynolds spins and drags it open, but there's no one in the waiting room who could have closed it. Rage simmers in John's veins. Is Reynolds scared yet? Is he scared the way Alex was, hands painted in his lover's blood? Like Eliza is, holding it together for her sister and praying her stubbornness didn't get them both killed? Like Maria was when Reynolds wrapped his fingers around her throat? John hefts Peggy's crystal ball off its carved ebony stand and thunks it on the table. He rolls it around and around in circles as Reynolds approaches, eyes wide. When Reynolds gets close enough, John heaves the crystal ball in his direction. Reynolds curses as he dives out of the way. The crystal shatters against the wall, slivers of glass flying everywhere.

Reynolds flees into the hallway of Peggy's apartment, where the door to the bathroom stands invitingly open. John savors the man's ragged gasps, the cords standing out in his arms as he barricades himself in the washroom. John may not be able to smell anymore, but he's sure the scent of fear permeates the air. When John was still a lawyer, he would have objected to torturing a suspect, but he's not a lawyer anymore. Reynolds took that from him.

He steps around Reynolds and turns on the sink's hot water tap full-blast.

Reynolds turns slowly, white visible all the way around his irises, and stares at the basin beginning to fill. For good measure, John turns on the shower too until steam clouds the mirror over the sink. With a finger, John writes in the condensation, B-O-O.

Reynolds screams.

Flinging open the door, he flees the apartment, careening onto the street past a horrified Burr. John stalks after him. He's not finished with Reynolds yet. Reynolds is the reason he had to watch Alexander sob over tangled strings and strips of fractured wood.

Pedestrians crowd into doorways as Reynolds staggers past in a daze. John shoves him into a newspaper stand. Reynolds pulls it down on himself trying to remain upright, dizzy and blinded by terror. He drops his gun. He stumbles a few more steps and falls to his knees. John kicks him in the ribs, and he keels over, bawling for help. Passersby run, frightened - Reynolds must be crazy, he's fighting thin air. John slams his foot into the man's gut again, and he cowers away, swaying to his feet. Headlights whizzing past highlight the terror on his face. He totters at the edge of the sidewalk.

Two hands smash into his chest, propelling him into the street. A truck's horn blares.

The grille that plows into Reynolds sends up a red mist. Reynolds's head snaps back at an unnatural angle. He rolls over the hood and collapses in a broken heap in the gutter. With a twitch, he goes still.

Maria Lewis stands over the body of her ex-boyfriend.

John stares at her. Her eyes are bright and cold, like pools of snowmelt John's father had taken him to see in Montana. The truck driver slams on his brakes and peels out of the cab, but it's too late.

James Reynolds stands. Eyes wide as dinner plates, he whispers, "Maria?"

"James." The name shakes, but she holds her chin high. "That was for Susan."

"How-" His gaze darts from the truck driver's meltdown to the mottling of her exposed throat to the corpse at his feet. His corpse. "No-"

Vaguely, John's aware of Burr staggering to a stop, absorbing the tableau, and stumbling away.

"Saw your picture on her phone, James. She's thirteen. God knows how many there were before me." She flashes a brittle smile at John. "Funny, how easy hookers vanish in this city."

"Maria," Reynolds begs. Shadows of rusted cars and buildings undulate in the twilight.

"Goodbye, James."

John sucks in a sharp breath as a shadow oozes away from a hydrant and wraps a tentacle around Reynolds' ankle. Reynolds cries out and kicks it away, but more creatures with flames bubbling from cracks in their flesh lash out elongated limbs. Red light boils from the entrance to a nearby alley.

Maria and John watch, silent, as the demons drag James Reynolds away.

He's gone.

There's a ringing in John's ears. He's frozen. He can't process this. His killer is dead. That was the most horrible thing he's ever seen, and yet -

"That was Hell," John says.

"Yes."

"No, seriously." His echo of a heart flutters like a canary whose owner forgot to latch the cage. " _That_ was Hell. Which means the sunlight is Heaven."

She nods, like she can't see what a phenomenally big deal this is. John laughs aloud, a little hysterical, a world of possibilities blooming before him.

He isn't damned. Whatever powers that be decided John Laurens is more saint than sinner.

Until this moment, he hadn't realized how convinced he'd been that his father was right, he was going to burn. He's not even religious. It's relentless, though, the steady hiss of damnation when you're queer in the modern world. Like how the Hubble telescope picks up background radiation from the universe's creation. Always there, coating your teeth and leaching through your pores until you take it for granted.

"You okay?" Maria asks, eyeing him oddly.

"Okay?" He jams his hands in his pockets, his grin widening. "I'm great!"

"Standing in front of a body, and you're great."

Oops. Right. "Uh."

She chuckles, a quiet huff of air. "See you around, soldier boy." She vanishes into the night.

Wait. Fuck. Eleven o'clock, Burr had said. John needs to get to Alex.

John retrieves Eliza and Peggy, and if their Uber's accelerator pedal is pressed to the floor all the way to Alex's apartment, well, the sisters are sitting in the back, right? So clearly it's the driver's imagination, since there's no one else in the car.

~

Peggy hammers on door 5B. Chester seemed too scared to deny her entrance to the building. "Alexander Hamilton, open up, you have to let us in!"

Alexander's retort is foul enough to curdle milk.

"I doubt our mother would have such relations with a rodent," Eliza calls.

There's a startled pause. "Eliza?" Then with rising volume, "You're in league with _her_?"

"I'm sorry I misled you, Alexander, but you have to trust us. You're in danger-"

They don't have time for this. John eases through the door, past Alex pacing on the other side. Alex's pile of mad scribblings remain crumpled under the radio. John pulls one out and carries in gingerly into the hall. "Tell him to turn around."

Peggy relays the message. Alexander turns, and his jaw goes slack. John smooths the paper, Alex following the motion, even though to him the letter must look like it's floating in midair. For once, Alex seems at a loss for words.

"Repeat after me, would you, Peggy?" John asks. He clears his throat. "I picked up your shirts from the dry cleaner this morning, god knows why. Mr. Singh said to say hello, because he didn't know. He should have known, everyone should have known when the world ended. John, I can't go on like this. I see you everywhere - on the street, at the bodega, coming up the hall. There are so many things I never said to you. Your lips are tattooed in the hollow of my collarbone, and I miss you so much I can't breathe. You took my days with you, my nights with you, my heart with you, my dreams with you." John's voice cracks, although of course that's not what Alex is listening to. "My life with you."

There's more, but he's said enough. John folds the letter and offers it to Alexander.

Alex accepts it and stares at the neat creases.

He opens the door.

Eliza and Peggy rush in, Eliza throwing the bolt behind her the moment they're inside. She turns to Alex. "You need to call the police. Burr has been helping Jefferson embezzle money through an account that came up in the Hemings case."

It says a lot about Burr's character that Alex needs no more convincing. His lips tighten, and he heads for the phone.

John and Eliza, for want of something more productive to do, make tea.

They end up clustered in the living room, Alex and Eliza on the couch with John kneeling next to Alex. Peggy sits with her back to the wall as she relays John's words. "Casper says he's missed you."

John drinks in Alex's unartistic messy bun and the new lines carved into his face. His sweatpants have a hole over the knee. "He's beautiful."

"Says you're beautiful."

Alex swallows hard, his gaze trained on an outlet across the room. There's a tremor in his hand, and John wishes desperately to wrap Alexander in his arms. "I'd give anything to touch him."

"Says he wants to touch you."

"You know," Eliza says, tentative, "I could help with that."

They all look at her.

She blushes. "I don't do it often, but I've got the family gift too, sort of. I can host spirits."

Like with Orlando. John gets the sense that this possession is an intensely private thing, and he's honored that Eliza's offering.

"You sure?" Peggy asks, eyes sharp.

"Yes."

"I'll give you three privacy, then." She leaves.

John gets up and carefully levers himself onto the couch where Eliza's sitting.

Sinking into Eliza's mind is like being wrapped in a blanket right out of the dryer. John blinks their eyes, and then it's just him, Eliza retreating to the back of their shared consciousness to 'leave you two alone.' Alex's eyes are pressed shut. John raises a slow hand and caresses Alexander's cheek, curling his fingers under his love's jaw. Alex swallows.

When John speaks, his voice is his own. "Alex."

"John."

He bites his lip, some deep emotion welling up inside him. This is all he ever wanted, and it'll only last a moment. "Dance with me."

He guides Alex to his feet and leads him to the relatively clear center of the room. Receipts rustle beneath their feet. Alex folds one of his now badly-shaking hands in John's, his other arm behind John's back, while John rests his free hand on Alex's shoulder. They sway in place.

Their last dance.

Images flash, unbidden, through John's mind. Things he'd only allowed himself to imagine late at night, Alexander curled against his side. Cutting a three-tiered cake at their wedding, their fingers overlapping as their guests cheer. Dawdling a baby on his knee while Alex teases him for being a sap. Holding his daughter's hand, eyes and heart full, as Alex accepts his first Pulitzer. Alexander greying but never slowing, their inevitable home in the suburbs, picnics, evening phone calls when John was on business trips.

John sings under his breath, resting his forehead against Alex's.

_I met you in the dark, you lit me up_

_You made me feel as though I was enough_

_We danced the night away, we drank too much_

_I didn't know that I was ready for love_

Alex's arm tightens around him, acknowledging the adjusted line.

_Then you smiled over your shoulder_

_For a minute, I was stone-cold sober_

_I pulled you closer to my chest_

_And you asked me to stay over. I said, I already told ya_

_I think that you should get some rest_

John squeezes his eyes shut, ashamed of how much he's failed to say. This might be his last chance. He checks with Eliza for permission before pressing his lips gently to Alex's.

_I knew I loved you then, but you'd never know_

_'Cause I played it cool when I was scared of letting go_

_I know I needed you, but I never showed_

_But I want to stay with you until we're grey and old_

_Just say you won't let go_

_Just say you won't let -_

Pounding on the front door. The moment shatters.

"Alexander!"

John stumbles out of Eliza's body as she and Alex spring apart. He feels as weak as he did after that half-marathon last September.

"Alexander, open up!"

Burr's arrived. John had almost hoped Reynolds would scare him off, but Burr's a hard man to shake.

Peggy reappears, her eyes haunted. "I don't do violence."

"And I don't have training," adds Eliza.

"Then what?" Alex asks. "We're trapped in here."

"Fire escape," suggests Eliza.

John had forgotten about the exterior exit from their bedroom window. While the living people clamber out and up, John slips through the front door and decks Burr.

Or, he tries to.

His fist swishes harmlessly through Burr's face. What? No. John grasps his anger, readily accessible now, and _pushes_ , but he's too weak. The possession drained him dry.

Burr shoots the lock and barges in.

His eyes dart around the empty apartment. Mugs steam from the coffee table, betraying their recent presence. Burr throws open the kitchen, the bathroom, the hall closet. He strides into the studio, John at his heels, just in time to hear a clang. His head snaps toward the bedroom. Shit.

John races ahead and tries to shut the window, but he can't catch the metal between his fingers. Burr sticks his head out in time to see Alex - he must have climbed out last - disappear.

"Alexander," Burr roars, "I need to talk to you!" The pistol shaking in his fist belies the innocence of his words. John's so sick of gunmen going after people he cares about. Peggy's voice echoes in his head: _murder cases make for dead mediums._ And Alex -

John matches Burr step for step up the three flights of stairs, trying the whole while to knock him to the pavement below. How could John be so stupid? How could he have let down his guard?

Alexander's waiting for them on the roof.

He stands ten feet in from the edge, expression shrouded in darkness. Glow from digital billboards smolders on the horizon of the city that never sleeps. Alexander spreads his arms to show he's defenseless. "You found me."

The wind spits secrets, flapping twists of Alex's hair about wildly. Empty wine barrels and sacks of soil scatter the roof, holdovers from John's plans for a garden. He catches a glimpse of movement from behind the barrels - Peggy and Eliza, crouching low. Peggy has a death-grip on Eliza's arm, restraining her.

Burr doesn't notice them. He only has eyes for Alex.

"I need the check," Burr says, his voice low. Sick with fear, John grabs for his arm, his fingers passing through Burr like a ship through fog.

"Want me to turn out my pockets?" Alex asks, his voice shaking. "I don't have it."

"Then give me the psychic bitch, and you can walk away."

"No."

John can't breathe. Burr raises the gun.

"Wait!" Eliza wrenches herself free and throws herself in front of him. "Don't hurt Alex. He never touched the check. I did."

Stupid, brave Eliza. John clenches his fists to keep them from trembling.

"Then give it to me," says Burr through clenched teeth. Somehow that control is scarier than if he roared.

"I can't," Eliza says, shoving Alex to keep him behind her. "It's all dark money now, thanks to _Citizens United_. We cashed it this afternoon."

"You lie." Shudders wrack Burr's body.

"Please, Mr. Burr," Eliza says softly, "put down the gun. We can help you. You can bargain with the police to act as a witness against Jefferson. Your sentence could be reduced-"

Burr laughs, a touch of hysteria coloring his tone. John sees Peggy bite back a sob. "For accessory to first-degree murder? That's minimum twenty years, probably life. The only time I'll be serving is when I serve as New York's next junior Senator. I've spent my whole life deferring action. Choosing the safest cases at the firm. Standing by while that smug sonofabitch Laurens wined and dined Alexander away from me. Hiding what I wanted and facing the ridicule. I'm _sick_ of it."

"Aaron," pleads Alex, "it's over. This isn't you. You've spent the last eight years telling me not to be rash. If you won't listen to me, listen to yourself."

"I am. I told Reynolds not to leave witnesses." Burr levels the muzzle of his gun at Eliza's chest. "I don't think she could have found someone to take the money that fast. In fact, I think she has it with her right now, and she's going to give it to me if she values her life. In three."

"I don't have it!"

"Two."

"Aaron, this is crazy, what are you doing-"

Neither of them produces a check. Burr pales, and his face sets into hard fury. "One."

Peggy flies at him out of nowhere, dragging the gun back ninety degrees so it shoots straight up. She twists the gun violently and wrests it free, flinging it aside. It skitters across the cement and skids under a pile of lumber. Alex dives for it. John grabs for a garden trowel. He can grasp it, now, but it clatters away when he tries to pick it up.

Peggy tussles with Burr, pacifism be damned. She punches at his nose, kicks at his groin, but she's out of practice. Burr has the muscle mass to match her technique. Eliza hovers a couple feet away, frantic for a chance to intervene, but they're moving too fast. Peggy shoves Burr, and he stumbles back. She follows with a strike to the throat followed by a knee to the gut. Burr crumples but stays upright. He feints forward, trying to get her to draw herself out. She blocks, and he uses the distraction to sweep out her feet. She hits the ground hard.

Eliza screams.

She throws herself at Burr and rakes trenches in his cheek. He retreats a step with a bellow, but they're at the edge of the roof. Noticing this and registering her lack of expertise, Burr plants his feet, lets her charge ram her arm under his as he grabs her shoulder and flips her over the side of the building. John's blood freezes until he hears a metallic clang, followed by shrieking. He runs to the edge - Eliza clings to the fire escape, her legs dangling over the street eight stories below.

Peggy staggers to her feet. She sways under Burr's first punch, but her timing is off. She's stunned. John realizes, like a fist to the gut, that she can't win this alone. Burr will take her out, then let Eliza crumple to the pavement far below, and then turn on Alex -

Who has the gun.

Whose hands quake so hard he can't aim the gun.

John breathes out.

He runs the ten feet to where Alex stands frozen in place.

He breathes in.

Wrapping his arms around Alex, chest to Alex's back like an embrace, John settles his fingers over and then into Alex's hands. The tingling at the merge feels like bubbles in champagne as John steadies the pistol. He can hear Alex's sharp exhale as he points the gun at the back of Burr's head.

John mentally thanks his dad for the sharpshooting lessons.

They pull the trigger.

Burr collapses.

Silence.

Peggy barely looks up before tearing to the edge of the roof, and seconds later she drags up a rattled but very alive Eliza. The sisters cling to each other. Peggy looks like she's crying. Alex drops the gun and sinks to his knees.

Heart in his throat, John approaches the corpse.

Burr sits up.

There's an endless moment in which he gazes at John, uncomprehending. When he speaks, his voice is small. Pathetic. "John?"

Jesus. The morning John and Alex first moved in together, Aaron brought them bagels. John had joked they only needed Aaron for food anymore, and he'd glimpsed for the first time the same naked fear that radiates off Aaron now.

All the hate drains out of John, leaving him empty. He just shakes his head.

Aaron looks down at his body and gasps, scrambling up and away. His eyes fix on the gaping hole where the side of his skull should be. "No. No."

The shadows stir.

John can't let this happen to Alex's best friend.

"Aaron," John says urgently, "take my hand." Maybe he can drag Aaron with him into the sunlight if they leave this instant.

But Aaron backs away, arms raised to ward off a blow. "No, stay away from me-"

A shadow loops itself around Aaron's ankle. A second snares his arm, a third his neck. Aaron screams. Red boils. John lunges after them, seizing Aaron's wrist, but the creatures pry him away.

Aaron's gone.

The roof is silent, other than the whistle of the wind.

Aaron's dead.

Alex is safe now.

John feels more tired than he's ever been, like he hasn't slept in weeks. Which, come to think of it, he hasn't. He breathes in the rich smell of vanilla.

"John?" Alex rasps.

John opens his eyes, and they're all three staring at him from where they're huddled together. He looks down to find his body translucent and swirling with gold specks, like dust motes in a sunbeam.

"It's time to go, John," Eliza says quietly. "You've finished what you needed to do."

She's right.

A warmth soaks through John like summer mornings in the field behind his parents' house when he was a boy. "I'm going to miss you guys," he admits. "And Peggy, your mother would be proud."

"Patronizing as ever," Peggy grumbles, but she's blinking too fast. "See you, Casper."

John inclines his head to Eliza, who smiles at him. She and Peggy back away, leaving John and Alex alone.

Of all the things John never got a chance to say, there's one that matters most. Staying quiet might be kinder in the long run, but - Alex deserves to know. John looks skyward to gather his confidence, steadying himself with an uneven breath. God, this hurts. "Medicine cabinet. Bottle of sleeping pills."

"What?"

"It was the only place I knew you wouldn't look. I was going to ask you that Saturday, at the top of the Statue of Liberty."

Alex's eyes widen. "You mean-"

"That's why I got home late, the night before." The engagement ring - his mother's - had burned in his pocket during the car ride back from the bank, where it had been hibernating in a safety deposit box. "I wanted us to be forever, Alex. I love you."

Alex presses a hand to his mouth. John can see him playing out their future in his imagination. Alex ducks his head and swallows, a watery grin tugging at his lips. "Ditto."

John chuckles. He deserved that.

The light's brighter now, yellow and comforting. John dips a hand into it, then pauses. "Do me a favor? Take Eliza out to dinner sometime."

"Say hello to my mother for me."

Stepping fully into the pillar of sunshine, John breathes, and it's like he's been inhaling smog his whole life. The horizon splits the sky, and he can see everything. A disbelieving smile breaks across his face. So that's what comes next.

When he speaks, his own voice seems to come from a great distance. "It's amazing, Alex. The love inside. You take it with you."

John walks forward. The light swells around him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been following this story. Special shoutout to apolloinstarlight who helped me completely rework the final fight scene. 
> 
> Wish me luck moving into college today! And, um, look up the rest of the song lyrics. They're...frighteningly appropriate.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for mentions of physical abuse, internalized homophobia, guns, canon-typical religious themes, violence, and grieving.
> 
> Thanks always to the incomparable beta apolloinstarlight.
> 
> Our school put on Ghost the Musical. I went twice, found the soundtrack, and eventually realized I wasn't going to be able to ignore that the plot was perfect for John. It's not *only* because I'm extremely gay for young Demi Moore, I swear. And if you haven't seen the movie, Whoopi Goldberg is glorious.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at ivyontheholodeck - come say hi! :)


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